Class 




BookJlllZ 



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TRUE STORIES 
of Old Houston 
and Houstonians 




ffi 









n 



A Word in Advance 



THESE STORIES owe their being largely to chance. The 
whole series was unintentionally begun. I wrote an 
article for the Houston Chronicle, giving the correct 
version of something that occurred in Houston forty years ago, 
an inaccurate account of which had appeared in one of the news- 
papers. Managing Editor Gillespi liked my story so much that 
he asked me to write others of the same kind. I agreed to do 
so, thinking that I could probably find material for half a dozen 
stories. After I got started, each subject suggested another, 
and so it has gone on, until now, the half dozen has grown into 
the hundreds, with the end not yet in sight. 

So many people have written to me asking that I print the 
stories in book form, that I have determined to do so, and have 
selected those found here as being, in my opinion, the best. 
These letters have come from all parts of the state and from 
several Eastern and Northern states. Then, too, people are con- 
stantly writing to the Chronicle asking for back numbers con- 
taining the stories, showing the demand for them. 

I have enjoyed writing these stories, for each one has 
brought back some pleasant memorj', and I hope that all those 
into whose hands this little book may fall, will enjoy reading 
them. 

THE AUTHOR. 



True Stories 



of 



Old Houston and 
Houstonians 



HISTORICAL and PERSONAL 
SKETCHES 

Dr. S. O. Young, Houston, Texas 



Oscar Springer, Publisher 

Galveston, Texas 

1913 



v3 



IN THE BEGINNING 

I' SUPPOSE it must have been published many times, but if 
so it has escaped my notice until the other day. I refer 
to the original advertisement of the town of Houston by 
the Allen Bros. The following is the document in full, which 
appeared originally in the Telegraph, published at that time at 
Columbia, on the Brazos River: 

"THE TOWN OF HOUSTON." 

"Situated at the head of navigation on the west bank of 
Buffalo Bayou, is now for the first time brought to public notice, 
because, until now, the proprietors were not ready to offer to 
the public, with the advantages of capital and improvements. 

''The town of Houston is located at a point on the river 
which must ever command the trade of the largest and richest 
portions of Texas. By reference to the map it will be seen 
that the trade of San Jacinto, Spring Creek, New Kentucky, 
and the Brazos, above and below Fort Bend, must necessarily 
come to this place, and will at this time warrant the employ- 
ment of at least $1,000,000 of capital, and when the rich lands 
of this country shall be settled a trade will flow to it, making 
it, beyond all doubt, the great commercial emporium of Texas. 

"The town of Houston is distant 15 miles from the Brazos 
River, 30 miles a little north of east from San Felipe, 60 miles 
from Washington, 40 miles from Lake Creek, 30 miles south- 
west from New Kentucky and 15 miles by water and 8 miles 
by land above Harrisburg. 

"Tidewater runs to this place and the lowest depth of water 
is about six feet. Vessels from New York and New Orleans 
can sail without obstacle to this place, and steamboats of the 
largest class can run down to Galveston in eight or ten hours 
in all seasons of the year. 

"It is but a few hours sail down the bay, where one can 
make excursions of pleasure and enjoy the luxuries of fish, fowl, 
oysters and sea-bathing. 

"Galveston harbor, being the only one in which vessels draw- 
ing a large draft of water can navigate, must necessarily render 
the island the great naval and commercial depot of the country. 

"The town of Houston must be the place where arms, ammu- 
nition and provisions for the government will be stored, be- 
cause, situated in the very heart of the country, it combines 
security and means of easy distribution, and a national armory 
will no doubt very soon be at this point. 

"There is no place in Texas more healthy, having an abund- 
ance of excellent spring water and enjoying the sea breeze in 
all its freshness. 



TRUE STORIES OF OLD 



"No place in Texas possesses so many advantages for build- 
ing, having fine ash, cedar and oak in inexhaustible quantities, 
also the tall and beautiful magnolia grows in abundance. In 
the vicinity are fine quarries of stone. 

"Nature seems to have designated this place for the future 
seat of government. It is handsome and beautifully elevated, 
salubrious and well-watered and is now in the very center of 
population and will be so for a long time to come. 

"It combines two important advantages — a communication 
with the coast and with foreign countries and with different 
portions of the republic. As the country shall improve, rail- 
roads will become in use and will be extended from this point 
to the Brazos and up the same, and also from this up to the 
headwaters of the San Jacinto, embracing that rich country, 
and in a few years the whole trade of the upper Brazos will 
make its way into Galveston Bay through this channel. 

"Preparations are making to erect a water sawmill, and a 
large public house for accommodation will soon be opened. 
Steamboats now run in this river and will, in a short time, 
commence running regularly to the island. The proprietors 
offer lots for sale at moderate terms to those who desire to 
improve them and invite the public to examine for themselves. 

"(Signed) A. C. ALLEN, for 

"A. C. & J. K. ALLEN." 

"August 30, 1836, 6m." 

That old document is as fine a piece of advertising as any 
turned out by the "artists" of today. It has one great merit, 
that of truthfulness, for whether intentionally or not the 
Aliens told almost the literal truth in every line they wrote, 
for all that they forecast has come true a thousandfold. 

I was glad to come across that old advertisement for it settles 
two stories that have been told so often that everybody has 
grown to believe them to be true. No doubt, impressed by 
the fulfillment of so many prophecies made by the Aliens, some 
writers have deemed it safe to add a little to them, and have 
allowed their imaginations somewhat free play. An instance 
of this is the story that when they were laying out the streets 
and blocks for Houston, one of the Aliens placed his pencil on 
"Railroad Street" and remarked that the future railroad would 
have its start right there. Unfortunately for this story, there 
was no Railroad Street laid out by the Aliens, and the street 
that now bears that name was not created until over 20 years 
after the Aliens laid out their town. Their city was bounded 
on the north by Buffalo Bayou. All the territory north of the 
bayou was densely wooded and they paid no attention to it. 
Now, since Railroad Street is on the north side of the bayou. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 



and got its name from the railroads that run over it, it is quite 
evident that the Aliens could have had nothing to do with nam- 
ing it, when the city was laid out. 

Another story destroyed by that advertisement is the one 
about Mrs. A. C. Allen naming the town. She may have named 
it and if she ever said she did I know she did, but not in the 
way the story goes. Following is the story: While the Texas 
congress was in session, the Allen brothers were trying to find 
a suitable name for their city. One of them consulted his sis- 
ter, Mrs. A. C. Allen, who without hesitation said: "Name it 
Sam Houston." She also offered to write to General Houston, 
who was then at Columbia and ask his permission to name the 
town after him. She wrote the letter and a few days later 
received a letter from him in which he said, "Leave off the 'Sam' 
and call it 'Houston'." 

The fatal point for that story is the fact that the Texas 
congress, which the story says President Houston was attend- 
ing, did not convene at Columbia until October 3, 1836, while 
the Allen brothers were advertising the sale of town lots in the 
"Town of Houston" on August 30, or over a month previous to 
any possible date for the story. 

♦ •i' ♦ 

EARLY HANGINGS IN HOUSTON. 

IT IS an historical fact that at the first sesssion of court 
held in Harrisburg County, as Harris was then called, two 
men were found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. 
It is stated that those two men were hanged immediately be- 
cause the jail was uncomfortably cold and the kind-hearted 
judge did not want the prisoners to suffer unduly. 

The court sentence is true, no doubt, but the story about the 
jail being too uncomfortable must be taken with a large pinch 
of salt, since there was no jail to be uncomfortable. The first 
jail was not built for at least two years after the date of that 
incident. By the way, that first jail was a curiosity. It had 
neither windows nor doors. It was simply a one-story log house 
with a flat roof. On its top was a trap door. This was raised, 
a ladder was lowered and the prisoner went down into the jail. 
Then the ladder was withdrawn, the trap closed, and the pris- 
oner was left to meditate on his sins. 

The first legal hanging in Houston, about which old citizens 
know, took place many years after the date of the reported 
hangings. It was that of a man named Hyde. He had waylaid 
and murdered a man and had then left the state and gone to 
Louisiana or Mississippi. Someone recognized him there and 



TRUE STORIES OF OLD 



reported the fact to the authorities here. Proper papers were 
made out and Hyde was arrested and brought back. That was 
in 1853, and the hanging took place in what was afterwards 
known as Hangsman Grove just on the southeast corner of the 
old cemetery out of the San Felipe Road. At that time and for 
many years after, that place was away out in the country, but 
is now thickly settled, with blocks of houses far beyond it. 

Captain Thom. Hogan was sheriff of Harris County at the 
time and was so nervous and excited that he stood on the trap 
with the condemned man and was about to cut the rope that 
held it in position, but was dragged off before he could do so. 

The next execution to take place out there was that of a 
negro named Johnson, in 1868, followed about two years later 
by the execution of another negro named Johnson. I witnessed 
both of these and at the last one I learned something that has 
done me more good and helped me to have faith in my fellow 
man than anything that has ever occurred to me. I suppose 
every reader of these lines has heard one or more honorable 
man get on the witness stand in court and swear to something 
that was not true. Such swearing is not confined to any one 
class, but the very best men — men of the highest integrity have 
been guilty of it. The majority of people put them down as 
willful liars and let it go at that, without attempting to go 
further. Not so with me. I have faith in them and know that 
they are telling what they think is true. The reason for my 
feeling that way is explained by this incidence. When the 
last negro was hanged, I was standing where I could see him 
plainly. I saw the hangsman adjust the rope about his neck 
and fit the knot under his left ear. I was on the right side. 
The negro wore a white shirt with a big, turned-down collar. 
When the drop fell I saw the rope peel back the black skin 
for about an inch, leaving the white fiesh exposed for a mo- 
ment. Then several large drops of black looking blood formed 
on the wound, slowly trickled down and fell on the white 
collar. 

After the negro was cut down I went with the doctor to the 
old pest house on the bank of the bayou to see the postmortem 
examination he was going to make. Of course the first thing 
I looked for was the wound on the neck, but, to my amazement, 
I found none. The skin was unbroken, not even scratched. 
The truth is that I had simply seen something that I expected 
to see, without knowing that I expected to see it. I was greatly 
excited, but was not conscious that I was so. Ever since then 
when I have heard absurd and palpably false statements made 
in court, by reputable men, I have felt that those making them 
were telling the truth, or at least what they thought was the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 



truth. I know that if occasion had arisen, and I had not have 
seen the negro's body after it had been cut down, I would have 
willingly staked my life betting that the rope had cut his neck 
exactly as I thought it had. Those two Johnsons were the 
last men executed at Hangsman Grove, for after that, all execu- 
tions took place in the jail or jail yard. The general idea is 
that many men were hanged out there, but as a matter of fact 
only three executions took place there. That of Hyde and the 
two negroes. 

♦ •!• * 

SOME OF THE NOTED BAD MEN. 

I HAD a most interesting talk a few evenings ago with my 
old friend, Dr. William Daniels. I know of no one who has 
had a more intimate acquaintance with the thrilling days 
of Texas and the men who furnished the thrills. The doctor, 
having served as one of the surgeons of Sibley's Brigade on 
the Rio Grande and in New Mexico and Arizona during the 
civil war, had exceptional opportunities for knowing all the 
real "bad men" of that day. It is pretty safe to say that from 
the beginning to the end one or more of them was connected 
with his command at some time. The doctor, while one of the 
quietest and most peaceable gentlemen and one, too, had he 
not practiced medicine for many years, one might safely say 
had never killed a man, always took great interest in "bad men" 
and made a study of them. 

"One hears often of the gameness of 'bad men'," he said. 
"They are game, of course, but so are you, so am I and so are 
90 per cent of the gentlemen one knows. It takes more than 
gameness to make a desperado or bad man, and that fact was 
recognized by the people who first gave them the name of des- 
peradoes. Cold-blooded murderers who killed merely for the 
pleasure of killing and who gave their victims no show at all, 
should be classed as human fiends and not be dignified by call- 
ing them 'bad men.' Billy the Kid belonged to that class. He 
killed just as a wild animal kills — merely for the pleasure it 
gave him to see his victims die. He was a fiend in human 
shape and should have no place in the honorable (?) list of 
killers. 

"The true 'bad man' differed from the ordinary man in many 
ways, the main one being his absolute indifference to taking 
human life. The only care he took about the matter was to 
have the semblance of being in the right before he acted. Ben 
Thompson, for instance, was noted for never firing the first 
shot. He always allowed the other fellow to shoot at him be- 
fore? he shot. It never required but one of his shots to get his 



10 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

man, and both he and the man knew that. No doubt it had 
influence in getting the other fellow's goat, for I don't think 
any of Ben's many antagonists ever succeeded in hitting him, 
while if he ever missed one of them the fact is not on record. 

"I knew Cain Norton, Tom Clark, King Fisher, Ben Thompson, 
Billy Thompson, Mat Woodlief and others of lesser prominence. 
There was one who, had he lived, would have made his mark. 
That was Buck Stacy, whose career was cut short by General 
John R. Baylor, who had him court-martialed and shot for kill- 
ing a fellow soldier after Baylor had issued an order against 
any further private killings. Buck was really a very game man 
and had all the elements about him that go to make the real 
'bad man.' 

"The gamest man among all the game ones was Cain Norton. 
In all his private wars I don't believe he ever gave himself a 
single thought. His own safety was a matter of utter indiffer- 
ence to him. He made no calculations about the future or the 
present, except to get his man, which he always did. On one 
occasion I saw him when another 'bad man' had the drop on 
him. Cain had only a knife, while the other fellow had a pistol. 
Cain first laughed at him, and then cursed and taunted him, 
daring him to shoot. He was willing to risk being killed so 
that he would get a chance to close in with his knife and take 
the fellow with him. The man he was facing had a reputation 
as a killer, but Cain's coolness got his goat and he ended by 
backing out of the door and leaving town. 

"Tom Clark was another cool one. I have often thought 
about Tom's case and have concluded that among some of his 
ancestors was one of those old knights errant, who spent their 
time hunting up wrongs or imaginary wrongs of other people, 
or doing something for the advancement of their lady love. 
Tom was a great lady's man and would fight for the protection 
of any woman, the wrinkled old hag as quickly as for the fair- 
est girl. One or two notches on his pistol's handle represented 
the exit of men who had so far forgotten themselves as to strike 
women in Tom's presence. It was that knightly feature in his 
character that led to his taking off. One Sunday morning Tom 
was in the old market house in San Antonio when a Mexican 
struck a woman in the face with his hand. Tom knew none of 
the people, but he promptly bent his six shooter over the fel- 
low's head. The chap drew a knife and made for Tom, who 
shot him dead. There was a big crowd of Mexicans there and 
they made a rush for Tom. He fired three shots and got three 
of them. Then the cylinder of his pistol got jammed and he 
snapped on an empty chamber and then, hurling the useless, pis- 
tol in their faces, folded his arms and quietly waited th ; in- 



HOUSTON A ND HOUSTONIANS ^^ 

evitable. About 20 Mexicans mounted him with knives and 
when they got through they had him cut into shoestrings. 

"Cain Norton was killed in one of the battles over in Louisiana, 
and so far as I can recall, he was the only one who met a soldier's 
death among the whole number. Every one of them died with 
his boots on, however. 

"If I could find time I would write a book telling of those 
stirring days and of the men who kept things at fever heat all 
the time. That would be one book where style and literary 
excellence would be at a discount, for the contents of the book 
would carry it along." 

♦ * * 

KU KLUX DAYS . 

IN 1868 reconstruction days were on in full blast all over 
Texas, and Houston, being so prominent a central point 
both in commercial and political matters, came in for a 
large share of shame and outrage. The "black belt" over on the 
Brazos being so near, it was an easy thing for the scalawags 
and carpetbaggers to bring negro voters by the hundred when- 
ever a so-called election was held. There was no registration 
required and all that was necessary was to have a red or blue 
ticket or a white one with a big flag painted on it, so that the 
ignorant negro could tell what ticket to vote, and the Republican 
leaders were assured of success in advance. Governor A. J. 
Davis had appointed the negro state guard a special police, 
and had suspended habeas corpus and given these negroes the 
right to make arrests on their own judgment without writ or 
any legal process whatever. Not content with this, the scala- 
wags and carpetbaggers went even further in their effort to put 
the negro above the white man. They organized the Union 
League, an organization formed for the sole purpose of con- 
trolling the ignorant negro votes and boosting the worthless 
white men, who were out for everything in sight, into office. 

There was only one voting place for the whole county and 
city at flrst— the court house— but later this was changed and 
the country people were allowed to vote in their -own precincts. 
Everybody in Houston, though, had to vote at the court house 
and this was done because it enabled the Republicans to control 
things to suit themselves. It is almost incredible the power the 
scalawags had over the negroes. They owned and controlled 
them like so many dumb animals and voted them, not in blocks, 
but as a solid unit. 

With so many imported negro votes in the field, the white 
men found themselves in a hopeless minority, but be it said to 



12 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

their honor and glory, they did their duty as voters and citizens, 
and that too under difficulties that were at times almost insur- 
mountable. 

In order to reach the voting place each voter had to get in 
line and keep his place, too. If he stepped aside even for a 
moment, unless he were a negro he forfeited his place and was 
forced to take a new one at the end of the line and begin all 
over again. Long before the polls opened there were hundreds 
of negroes and as many white men as could get there in line. 
This line was often one or two blocks long and two men abreast. 
Only two men were admitted to the polls at once so the voting 
was long drawn out and tedious. Extending from the court 
house down to the room where the voting took place was a 
double line of Federal soldiers with fixed bayonets, and every 
free American citizen, black or white, had to pass between a 
line of bayonets to express his will at the ballot box. 

Republican strikers and henchmen were continually passing 
along the line of voters and were swelling the Republican ma- 
jority by slipping belated negroes into the line ahead of the 
white men. It was a great outrage but it worked all the same 
and gave the Republican managers absolute control of every- 
thing. Of course, the voting time was limited, which enabled 
them to shut out the white vote in part if not in whole. The 
negroes in the advance voted leisurely, consuming as much 
time as possible, thus holding back the line. When a white 
man showed up he was put through a sharp questioning; his 
right to vote was contested and every obstacle possible was 
placed in his way. Finally he was either allowed to vote or 
was thrown out, and the negroes were allowed to vote rapidly 
in order to make up lost time. I have known of old citizens, 
holding their places in the line for hours and then losing their 
votes by having the polls close on them promptly at 6 o'clock, 
or just about the time the white voters would reach the polls. 

Now, conditions such as these were enough to drive men crazy 
and irresponsible, but yet, strange to say, there was very little 
rioting or bloodshed. Most of the lawlessness came from the 
other side and Davis' state guard, all negroes, did more to 
overthrow the Republicans and scalawags than all the other 
causes combined. This was in two ways. The outrages com- 
mitted by the negro policemen enraged the whites and the 
punishment meted out by the whites terrified the negroes and 
their worthless backers, causing them to become less open and 
aggressive in their diabolical work. 

It is really hard to believe at this later day the outrages per- 
petrated by the negro state guards. By the authority given 
them by Governor Davis they were supreme and above all 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 13 

local authority. They arrested whomever they pleased. Little 
things like making a complaint or securing a warrant for an 
arrest cut no figure at all. They generally went in bunches of 
four or five and were heavily armed. It was no unusual thing 
for them to stop good citizens on the streets or county roads, 
cross-examine them in the most insolent manner and then 
curse them, using the vilest language in an effort to make 
them do something so they could have an excuse for killing 
them. They did kill a great many men in various parts of the 
state, but as the only witnesses to these killings were them- 
selves, they never had the least trouble. 

Things were in this shape when the climax came. Three or 
four of these negro police were in Brenham sitting on a bench 
in the public square. A highly respected citizen and merchant 
by the name of Ledbetter started across the square from his 
store to go to the postoffice. He passed some distance from the 
negroes and being hard of hearing, did not hear them when they 
called to him and demanded to know where he was going. They 
jumped up and ordered him to halt. Still not hearing them he 
continued on his way. He had taken only a few steps when 
he fell dead, riddled by bullets from the negroes' guns and pis- 
tols. The murder was so cold-blooded and unprovoked that 
the whole community rose in arms. The negroes made their 
escape, but the black flag had been raised and from that mo- 
ment Davis' state guards were doomed to dogs' deaths wherever 
found. None of them was ever arrested for anything he had 
done, because when they were found they were wiped out. 
They were placed in the same class with snakes, wolves and 
other undesirable things and the average white man thought 
no more of killing one of them than he could have thought of 
killing a snake. I don't know whether it was true or not but 
it was currently reported and believed, that after the murder 
of Ledbetter not a single member of Davis' negro state guards, 
originally about 80 strong, ever died a natural death. 

This change of front on the part of the white men had a 
salutary effect on the negroes. They became less bold and open, 
but the carpetbaggers and scalawags maintained their hold on 
them through great political organizations. 

The time was now ripe for an organized effort on the part 
of the whites and that fact was recognized. One afternoon I 
was seated in front of the old Capitol Hotel, where the Rice 
Hotel now stands, in company with Colonel Jones, a young 
lawyer who had make quite a reputation as a Confederate offi- 
cer and soldier; Major Crank, Captain Charley Evans and one 
or two others. After a desultory conversation Colonel Jones 
asked me abruptly if I believed in white man supremacy. Of 



14 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

course my aaswer was in the affirmative. He then asked if 
I was willing to take part in a movement to insure white su- 
premacy. I told him I was. He then told me that a movement 
was on foot to organize the white men and he wanted me to 
join the organization. I agreed and on the following Tuesday 
night I was initiated in the Texas Klu Klux, though it was 
known by a different name. I was the first man initiated, my 
number being eleven. There were ten charter members. Colonel 
Jones being No. 1, Captain Evans No. 2, Major Clark No. 3 and I 
forget the others, but I do remember that the late General 
C. C. Beavens was No. 10, but being a strict Catholic the priest 
objected to his belonging to a secret society and he never took 
part in the organization. Aside from the advantage gained by 
making the order as mysterious as possible I could never see 
reason for any secrecy, for it was an absolutely lawful associa- 
tion, and its members were sworn to do all in their power to 
maintain the supremacy of the white men by lawful means 
and to restore law and order. 

We picked our men and in less than a month we had over 
300 members in Houston and the order had extended to nearby 
towns. In a month or two the order had gone all over Texas, 
and had thousands of members. The idea of profound mystery 
was carried out in every way. Members were known only by 
numbers, and no written record was ever made or kept. When 
investigations were necessary or when any outside work was 
to be done no one ever knew who was chosen to do the work 
except the general and those who were chosen. Of course the 
negroes, loyal leagues and carpetbaggers became greatly excited 
when they discovered the existence of our organization and 
they made every effort to find out something about us. That 
they could not do because there was absolutely nothing to find 
out. I belonged to the order from the day of its organization 
until it was dissolved and I never knew of an unlawful act 
done by it, nor of one done by some over zealous or silly mem- 
ber that was not 'promptly rebuked. The order accomplished 
its object the very moment it was organized, for its mere 
existence, surrounded as it were with so much mystery, struck 
terror to the negro heart and caused their white backers to 
pause and take notice. During a small riot and threatened 
uprising of the negroes one Sunday morning the old market 
bell was tolled in a peculiar way by some unknown person. 
Within a few minutes several hundred men armed with shot- 
guns and pistols suddenly appeared on Main Street and the 
negroes and their white friends disappeared as suddenly. But, 
as Kipling says, that is another story, and as it is rather an inter- 
esting one, I shall reserve it for another time. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 15 

HOOD'S BRIGADE'S MASCOT. 

DURING the winter of 1869 I was sitting in the reading 
room of the old St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans, when 
I saw in a stray copy of the Houston Telegraph the fol- 
lowing startling headline: 

"DEATH OP JAMES LONGSTREET." 
Naturally I supposed that General James Longstreet, the great 
Confederate general and the loved and admired leader of the 
Texas brigade in Virginia, which brigade was so immediately 
under his command, was the Longstreet referred to. I read 
the article eagerly and was relieved to find that it was the death 
of a famous mule rather than that of the famous general that 
was chronicled. That mule was famous indeed, for it had the 
distinction of being the "mascot" of Hood's Texas Brigade in 
the army of Northern Virginia. 

Just where Jim Longstreet came from I never knew. All I 
know is that Major W. D. Denney, who was commissary of the 
brigade, owned him as early as 1862 and that Jim was a con- 
spicuous object around the commissary wagons during the four 
years of the war. Major Denney was killed at Elthams Landing 
the first time the brigade was under fire, on May 7, 1862, and 
was succeeded by Major Robert Burns, who fell heir to the 
mule and also to a big gray horse owned by Major Denney. I 
mention these facts so as to get Jim Longstreet's war record 
straight. He shared in the glory of the first battle, though 
from a safe distance, and laid down his ears at Appomattox. 
Jim was a beautiful animal. He was about the size of a small 
Shetland pony, perfectly formed, graceful, quick in his move- 
ments and, though by no means lazy, he never did a lick of 
work in his life. He was a camp follower in the strictest sense 
of the word, and before the war had continued very long he 
was considered the very best authority on the nearness of a 
fight. At the sound of the first gun Jim would break for the 
rear and remain there until the trouble was over. He was a 
great forager and would go off alone on private expeditions, 
but at the sound of a cannon he would duck his head and make 
a bee line for the wagons. His track was about the size of 
a silver dollar and was easily recognized, so that it frequently 
served as a guide for the two-legged foragers to find camp. Jim 
shared in all the hardships through which the army passed, but 
they seemed to do him good instead of harm, for he was always 
fat and sassy. He was with the brigade when it went to help 
Bragg out at Chickamauga and in Tennessee. He followed Lee 
to Gettysburg and finally, as already remarked, laid down his 
ears at Appomattox. When the end came Major Burns brought 



16 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

his gray war horse and Jim to Texas. How lie managed to do 
it is a mystery, but he did it and late in 1865 he arrived in 
Houston with both animals. He presented James Longstreet 
to Dick Fuller, whose brother, B. P. Fuller, had been captain 
of Company A in the Fifth Texas Regiment. 

From the moment Jim became Dick's property his comfort 
and ease were assured and he led a life that suited him down 
to his toes. He was the personal pet of every boy in town and 
from the dignified air he assumed I am confident he felt his 
importance and knew how great a mule he was. He had sense 
just like folk and had the most cunning ways about him. There 
was absolutely nothing vicious about him. 

James Longstreet, like many men who did no actual fighting 
during the war, never was convinced that the war was over. 
For him the war went on for many years after Appomattox. 
This was shown in a decided way. James continued his forag- 
ing expeditions to the day of his death. He would wander 
away and go clear out on the prairie, though he never crossed 
the bayou and went into the woods. No matter how far away 
he was or what he was doing, if a thunder storm came up he 
would duck his head and break for home at the first thunder 
clap. He was certain that a fight was about to begin and he 
hunted for safety at the discharge of what he thought was the 
opening gun of the engagement. When at home a thunder 
storm had no effect on him and he paid no attention to the 
most terrible crashes, but away from home he was keenly on 
the alert. 

James Longstreet died in 1869, full of years and honors. He 
was given a decent burial, as was befitting his station in life, 
and the Houston Telegraph published a column obituary of him, 
reciting his many virtues. His record was remarkable and his 
life he made an easy one. He was the pet of the soldiers of 
Hood's Brigade four years and the pet of the boys of Houston 
during the remaining years of his life, after the war was over. 
He lived at peace with himself and the whole world and died 
lamented by all who knew him. 

* * * 

BIG GULLIES IN HOUSTON. 

ABOUT the first thing that the Houston and Texas Central 
Railroad had to do when that road was begun, was to 
build a long trestlework over an immense gully that 
lay between the present Grand Central Depot and the old city 
graveyard. That gully began about on Houston Avenue and 
ran parallel with the track for a block or two and then turned 
to the northeast and extended to White Oak Bayou. It has 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 17 



since been almost completely filled, though traces of it still 
remain. 

In the early days Houston was remarkable for its numerous 
large gullies. There was one great one that took up rather 
more than the lower end of Caroline Street, It was narrower 
after reaching Congress Avenue, and gradually narrowed until 
it completely disappeared between Prairie and Texas Avenues. 
There were two big bridges crossing the gully, one on Franklin 
and the other on Congress Avenue. Those were the two prin- 
cipal streets used at that time, very few people living south 
of Texas Avenue. 

But the king gully of all was the one on Rusk Avenue. This 
began on Smith Street and before it had gone a block it was 
almost a block wide. It became much wider as it neared the 
bayou and really got so broad that it was two or three blocks 
wide. Both this and the Caroline Street one have been filled 
up and now one would never know that they had existed. 

One of the famous gullies was that between Texas and Prairie 
Avenues. It began on Milam Street about in the middle of the 
block and ran down to the bayou. Unlike the other gullies, 
this appeared to have been quite ancient, for its banks were 
covered with vegetation and free from fresh erosions. Near 
where the gully passed Smith Street there was a very large 
spring overhung by a large oak tree. I can close my eyes now 
and see that spring and the little school of minnows that were 
always swimming about in it. I walked down that way a few 
days ago and found an immense brick building on a paved street, 
40 feet above where that beautiful spring was. I found not a 
trace of the gully, it having been filled up and converted into 
building lots, all now covered with houses. 

There used to be quite a large gully running from Preston 
Avenue to the bayou. My earliest recollection of this gully is 
of the spring that was at its head, near the southeast corner 
of Preston and Louisiana Street. As I recall it this spring was 
not much for beauty, though it was large enough to cause a 
standing mudhole on Louisiana Street. Going from Preston 
towards the bayou this gully widened rapidly and was quite an 
obstruction to travel by the time it reached Congress Avenue. 
It too has been filled and today not a trace of it remains. 

Now, of all the mean and disagreeable gullies that ever existed 
anywhere, the big one on Rusk Avenue took the cake. It was 
caving constantly and its banks and sides were sticky, red clay. 
When it rained, this gully was a place to be avoided. At each 
street crossing there was a plank near the bottom of the gully 
to enable persons who had to cross to escape the water in the 
bottom of the gully. The descent was perilous and ascent 



18 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

equally so. Everybody that had any sense went ^ around the 
head of the gully, but there were lots of people who preferred 
to risk the gully to taking the walk. Of course, none of the 
boys had any sense. As a rule they were barefooted and did 
not care much whether they got muddy or not. I remember one 
evening when a German "pardner" of mine and I got caught by 
darkness on the other side of that gully. We had been out on 
the San Felipe Road, had stayed too long and were making short 
cuts for home. I can look back now and see that we did not 
gain much by our short cuts, but then we thought we did and 
that counted at the time. 

Finally we came to this big gully. I wanted to go around 
its head, but my friend would not listen to doing so. He 
announced that he was a goat when it came to going down a 
muddy gully and told me to watch him and then I would see 
how easy it was to do. I watched all right and he found it 
much easier to go down than he had anticipated. About the 
third step he took, his heels flew up and he started down with 
a rush. Just before he reached the narrow plank near the bot- 
tom, he succeeded in stopping himself, but the halt was only 
for a moment, for the next thing he did was to go head foremost 
into the mud and water at the bottom. I could not see him very 
distinctly because of the darkness, but you bet I could hear him, 
and he was not making a Sunday school address, either. Now 
the funny part of the whole thing was that having been whirled 
and twisted about so much, he lost his bearings and when he 
started to crawl out of the gully, he crawled out on the same 
side that he went in. He would dig his hands and feet in the 
slippery clay and yell for me to come on, saying that if I did 
not hurry up he was going to leave me. He was angry, anyway, 
but when he finally reached the top and saw me standing there 
and realized what he had done, he nearly had a fit. I wanted 
to get home and had no time for a fight, so I refrained from 
saying anything to him about being a goat. I knew it would 
make him supremely happy if I gave him the least excuse for 
starting a war. Finally I started off to head the gulley and he 
followed, bringing along with him a surprisingly large quantity 
of clay and mud, for which he had no use on earth. 

I don't know that there is a single gully left in the city limits, 
and there should be none, for of all the useless things on earth 
they are the chief. 4. ii. 41 

A SURE THING. 

ALL the old Houstonians remember Frank LeMott. He 
was born in New York, but he claims to be from the 
old Huguenot family of that name, who originally set- 
tled in South Carolina. Frank is very proud of the blue blood 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 19 

in his veins, and clainft tliat he is the only black sheep in 
the family. He also claims that he was a black sheep for a 
time only, and he is perfectly correct in saying that, as for many 
years past he has been as staid and circumspect as any Presby- 
terian deacon could be. 

When Colonel Abe Gentry was building the Texas and New 
Orleans Railroad, he went to New York and met Frank, then 
a mere boy. He liked him so well that he induced him to come 
to Houston with him, took him to his home-^nd made him one 
of his family. It was not long after his arrival here when the 
war broke out. Frank took the side of the South and when 
Captain Ike Stafford raised his cavalry company to go down 
on the Rio Grande, the first company raised in Houston, Frank 
joined it. He served four years in the Confederate army, and 
was with Baylor, Ford and all of the others in West Texas, 
New Mexico and Arizona. 

When the war closed Frank found himself without home or 
employment and, what was worse, he had formed tastes that 
made him a wanderer and largely an adventurer. His career 
as a soldier had been just at that formative stage in his life 
when it stamped itself on his character and he could not stand 
the humdrum routine of everyday civil life. 

He wanted excitement, and since he could not get that in war 
he took the next best thing and became a gambler. I would 
not refer to this at all were it not for the fact that he reformed 
many years ago and is now and has been for half a generation 
one of the most reputable and highly esteemed citizens of Gal- 
veston. 

He is a superb raconteur, has had a wonderful experience, 
and it is a great treat to hear him relate some of his adven- 
tures. His stories are all good, but one is inclined to think the 
last one he tells is the best of all. When he gets deeply inter- 
ested in what he is telling he is apt to lapse into the gambler's 
habit of speaking of everything in the present tense. Here is 
one of his best stories. He and I were talking about "sure 
things" one day. 

"Don't you fool yourself," said he; "there are no such things 
as 'sure things.' I know, because I have had experience with 
them. Why, once I had such a 'sure thing' it was too dead to 
skin. The funny part about it is that it worked perfectly, too, 
but I don't press my luck working it but that one time. 

"I'm over in Gonzales, where there is a big horse race meet- 
ing going on. There are lots of cowmen there, and they all have 
big money and they bet it free, too. The first night I got there 
I went against faro bank and dropped my roll. That didn't 
bother me much, because I knew I could get a stake from some 



20 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

of the boys next day. I went to my room and got to thinking 
about the races. Everybody was betting so free and easy that 
I saw a good killing could be made if I could hatch up a scheme. 
Before long a plan suggested itself to me. The Devil helped me, 
and before I went to bed I had one of the 'surest-sure things' 
that any sport ever got his claws onto. 

"The next morning I tapped one of the boys for a stake. He 
was not very strong, having only $80, but he split that with me. 
It was not much, 9{it I was satisfied, for my 'sure thing' was so 
good that all I wanted was to get my first bet down and it would 
work itself after that. 

"I got out to the race track early so as to size up the crowd. 
There was a big bunch of redhot sports there and they were 
all howling to get their money down on a big horse that was a 
favorite at 2 to 1. I didn't make any bets, but just walked 
around looking for the right man to help me out. Finally I 
found him. He was a long, lanky fellow and had only one arm. 
I took him off on one side and interrogated him. 

"Sawmill or gin?" said I, pointing to his absent arm. 

" 'Army,' says he. 

"Infantry or cavalry?" says I. 

" 'Infantry,' says he. 

"Then you ought to be able to walk like hell," said I. 

" 'I can,' said he. 

"I saw he was a man of few words and determined to trust 
him. Then I unfolded my plan to him. It was simple. I would 
make a bet and he would hold stakes. He would slip the money 
back to me and I would bet it all again. When the horses got 
started good he was to slip over the hill and meet me next day 
in Seguin and we would divide up. 

"He agreed and I went out to slaughter 'em. I saw a sport 
waving a big bunch of bills he wanted to get down on the 4- 
year-old that was the favorite at 2 to 1. I took him promptly, 
he putting up $80 against my $40. I remarked that I was a 
stranger and looked around for somebody to hold the stakes. 
'Here's the right man,' I said; 'he hasn't got but one arm and we 
can know him easy.' The sport agrees and the one-armed man 
gets the money and then slips it back to me and I puts the $120 
against $250 another sport is howling to get rid of, and my one- 
armed man holds stakes again. 

"I don't know how many times I bet that roll. Finally the 
sports conclude from my betting so freely that I know something 
against the 4-year-old and I can't get any more bets. Then I 
force things and give odds against him — anything to get action 
on my money. Before the race started I had the whole bunch 
bet to a standstill. Finally the race started. Everybody is 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 21 



watching the horses except me. I'm watching my one-armed 
man, and I don't breathe easy until I see his head disappear 
over the hill. Of course I'm prepared to help the gang raise 
hell over the stakeholder getting away with the money, but 
there ain't any hell raised. A little flea-bitten gray mare, ridden 
by a nigger, comes under the wire a length ahead of the 4- 
year-old. 

"I'm crazy. I've bankrupted West Texas, and I break over the 
hill after my one-armed man. But I don't find him, for he sure 
tells the truth when he says he can walk like hell. I search 
the county for him that evening, but I don't find him. The next 
day I go over to Seguin, but he ain't there. I wait there two 
days, but he never did show up, and he must be going yet, for 
I have never seen him since his head went over the hill. 

"That's the surest thing I ever had, and you see a plumb 
outsider got away with all its fruit. 

"There are two things," said Frank in concluding his story, 
"that have worried me ever since. One is trying to figure how 
much money I beat those sports out of, and the other is how 
anybody could have acted as dishonest as that one-armed man 
did." 

* * 4f 

A COMPANY OF GAMBLERS. 

EVERYBODY knows how scarce Confederate soldiers were 
in the South toward the latter part of 1863. As some 
wit expressed it, Jefferson Davis had robbed the cradle 
and the grave and was almost tempted to call out the cavalry. 
It is needless to say that the wit belonged to some other branch 
of service than cavalry. Texas was the only Southern state 
on whose soil the federal troops had not succeeded in making a 
permanent foothold. The naval and military forces had been 
driven off by Magruder at Galveston; the invading force of 
Banks had been defeated at Sabine Pass by Dick Dowling, and 
Banks' Red River campaign had resulted only in making large, 
though involuntary, contribution of food, clothing and ammuni- 
tion to the Confederates who opposed him. 

And yet with all this pressing need for men at the front there 
were hundreds upon hundreds of able-bodied men in Houston, 
the headquarters of General Magruder, who commanded the 
Trans-Mississippi department. There were blockade runners, 
cotton exporters and hundreds of others who, on one pretext or 
another, secured immunity from military service. Then, too, 
there were scores of gamblers. How these latter escaped the 
conscript officers no one knew, but they did and they lived on 
the fat of the land, too. 



22 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

At that time there was an old gentleman, a distinguished 
criminal lawyer, living in Houston. He was eager to go to the 
front and had almost evaded his friends and succeeded in doing 
so on one X>t two occasions. Of course, being a criminal lawyer, 
who almost invariably won his cases, he was vastly popular 
with the gambling fraternity and it was principally they who 
raised such a strenuous objection to his risking his valuable 
life on the field of battle. 

One night the judge had an inspiration. He thought of a plan 
by which he could not only get to the front himself, but could 
take all his troublesome friends with him. He would organize 
an independent cavalry company; make every man furnish his 
own equipment and would thus be in position to choose his own 
men. He knew that no others than the gamblers could stand 
the expense, so he determined to get his recruits from among 
them only. 

The next morning he called at General Magruder's headquar- 
ters; outlined his scheme and, of course, readily received the 
authority to carry out his plan. The judge knew how futile 
it would be to appeal to the gamblers on grounds of patriotism, 
and he did not try to do so. He sent for two or three of the 
leaders and told them that he had just left Magruder's head- 
quarters and that an order would be issued in a day or two 
revoking all exemptions from military service and all special 
privileges. He pointed out to them that since they would have 
to go in the army anyway, they might as well go of their own 
accord and thus be able to choose the branch of service they 
would prefer to belong to. He then told them that he had 
secured from Magruder authority to raise an independent cav- 
alry company; that he, the judge, would be captain, but that the 
men could elect all the other officers and that Magruder had 
promised to confirm them. 

The plan was instantly endorsed and before night about 80 
men were enrolled, officers were elected and the work of secur- 
ing equipments was begun. 

The only delay was occasioned by their inability to secure 
things fine enough. The best and showiest horses and bridles 
and silver and gold mounted six-shooters were secured and 
within a week everything was in readiness. 

As already stated, there were no Federals in Texas at that 
time. So after this fine company was organized it had every- 
thing requisite for a brilliant victory except the enemy to win 
it from. In this dilemma they took Horace Greeley's advice and 
went West. Their first halt was at Velasco, where they saw 
two or three Federal gunboats lying off the mouth of the river, 
hoping to pick up blockade runners. There was nothing to be 



HO US TON AND HOUSTONIANS 23 

done there, so they moved on and finally reached Matagorda Bay. 
Here they halted to rest for awhile and it was here that they 
had the time of their lives. 

Their camp was about four miles from the gulf in a liveoak 
grove and they rode out every day over the prairie and down 
to the water front. A favorite excursion was far out on a penin- 
sula that extended obliquely into the gulf. Occasionally a Fed- 
eral gunboat would pass, always too far out to notice them, but 
it made them feel better to know that there were enemies about 
even if they were so far away. 

One day the company concluded to have a big oyster roast out 
on the peninsula. So early in the morning they rode out to 
its end, where the grass was most plentiful, hobbled their horses, 
returned to the oyster bed and began operations. The oysters 
were on the bayside, so their backs were to the gulf and the 
view in that direction was further obstructed by high grass and 
shell banks. Some of them waded in the water and threw out 
the oysters, while others built fires or dug trenches in which 
to roast them. It was a hot and sultry day, and as they took 
their time, it was fully 10 o'clock before the feast was ready, 
A few black clouds had piled up in the west and thunder was 
to be expected, but the clap that came fairly drove every thought 
of oysters from their minds and nearly paralyzed them. It 
struck about half way between them and the main land, and 
pieces of it bounded off and went kicking up the water of the 
bay every three or four hundred yards for over a mile. They 
sprang up the bank as one man, and saw to their horror a 
Federal gunboat about a mile off shore and realized that they 
were about to receive their baptism of fire. Their first thought 
was to make for their horses, but a glance in that direction told 
them that the attempt was useless, for there before their eyes 
was a boatful of bluecoats nearing shore rapidly. Their plight 
was pitiful, for as every old soldier knows, bombshells frighten 
an infantryman, the rattle of minie balls among the spokes of 
his guns scares an artilleryman, while if you get a cavalryman 
away from his horse any and everything scares him. 

To say that they hesitated would be a gross exaggeration. 
There was no hesitation. They faced the main land and fled, 
their valorous captain fulfilling the promise he had made at their 
organization by working far in the lead. The Federals behind 
them had now landed, and being within long range, opened fire 
with their muskets, while the gunboat sent a six or twelve-pound 
shell over their heads every few minutes. Their pace was 
fearful from the first, but it was sloth itself compared to the 
move they got on themselves when they discovered another boat 
loaded with marines trying to head them off. The peninsula 



24 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

was joined to the main land by a narrow neck of land with rather 
deep water on each side, so it was simply a question of beating 
the boat there or throwing up the sponge. However, in the 
language of Mark Twain's cowboy they "seen their duty and 
they done it." They beat the boat to the point by a neck and 
passed it gloriously, their pace being accelerated at the critical 
moment by the explosion of a big shell over their heads and a 
brisk fire from the marines in the boat, who npw, realizing that 
they had lost, concluded to get an extra spurt or two from the 
land side of the race. 

The main land was reached, but there was that broad prairie, 
and for at least two miles the noble band would be within 
reach of the guns of the gunboat. Shells began falling in front, 
behind and all around them. There was no abatement of the 
pace. It was a mad, headlong plunge forward, a mad desire to 
get anywhere, anywhere out of reach of the shells. Finally the 
shells ceased to fall, but the mad rush continued until an old 
deserted house on the prairie was reached. Here the gallant 
men fell in a heap and attempted to catch their breaths and to 
still their throbbing hearts. 

After awhile, one by one, they succeeded in crawling into the 
deserted house and lay there panting, bathed in perspiration, 
but silently congratulating themselves on their escape. The cap- 
tain, a very large and fleshy man, was three-fourths dead, but 
after an hour or two regained sufficient energy to sit up and then 
announced that he would go upstairs and see if the gunboat had 
gone. The others sat or lay around too utterly played out to 
take the slightest interest in the matter or care whether it had 
gone or not so long as they were out of range. 

A few moments after the captain had gone there was a tre- 
mendous crash as if the side of the house had been crushed in 
by a shell. There was but one thought — the gunboat had re- 
turned, had got the range of the house and had plugged it the 
first time. That thought cost the old house its front door for 
there was not room for the whole crowd to get out at once as 
they tried to do. Part of the old fence was swept away, too, as 
they, swerving neither to the right nor to the left, made a bee- 
line for their camp in the live oak grove in the distance. It was 
another mad rush with the devil take the hindmost for several 
hundred yards, when, hearing no more shells, one of the boldest 
slackened his pace and then others, emboldened by his example, 
slowed down until they all came, to a dog trot. Now, for the 
first time they thought of their captain and noticed his absence. 
A council of war was held, which resulted in a determination 
to return and bear away his mangled remains, for there was no 
doubt among them that the shell had found a shining mark in 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 25 

his manly form. Slowly they wended their way back and when 
within long earshot they were startled by an unearthly rapping 
and kicking, mingled with smothered oaths and maledictions. 
There could be no mistake about that voice. It was that of their 
captain and he was very much alive and evidently very much 
enraged. They hurried round the house and found to their 
amazement that the sounds came from the inside of an immense 
wooden cistern. Yes, their captain was safe and not a mangled 
corpse as they feared. He was very much alive though a pris- 
oner. They fished him out after a great deal of trouble and then 
learned the truth. He had gone to the second story to get a 
good view of the gulf and had incautiously crawled out on what 
he thought was a shed but which proved to be the top of a cis- 
tern. This being old and decayed had given way with the great 
crash that had stampeded the company, and he had been preci- 
pitated to the bottom. Fortunately there was no water in the 
cistern so the consequences were by no means disastrous. 

About ten days later a train of dilapidated cars, drawn by a 
squawking engine, drew into Houston from Brazoria. After all 
the passengers had gone, the captain of the great independent 
company of Texas rangers and two or three comrades slipped 
off the step of the last coach and sneaked down a side street. 
The next evening other members of the company did the same 
thing and within a week they were all back and following their 
usual vocations just as though nothing out of the ordinary had 
ever happened. 

How the judge ever explained Magruder's not issuing that 
order, the fear of which had caused the gamblers to fall such 
easy victims, was never known. The fact that every member 
of the company was strictly on the defensive no doubt helped 
him out of the difficulty. 



AN ENCOUNTER WITH A CAMEL. 

MONDAY when the circus was here I saw an old 
horse hitched to a buggy making a fool of himself 
because there were two or three elephants march- 
ing up Main Street. Now if it had been camels instead 
of elephants there might have been some excuse for that 
old horse, for, as everybody knows, horses dread camels 
as the devil dreads holy water. An explanation of this fact 
is given in an old story to the effect that when God made animals 
He made a horse among the last. He told the horse that he 
should be man's servant and be a beast of burden. At that the 
horse thought he would make some suggestions and said that if 



26 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

man were going to ride on his back he should have a natural 
saddle. God knew what he was doing and, just to show the horse 
the absurdity of his suggestion, He made a camel and placed it 
in front of the horse. The horse took one look at the horrible 
figure and then took to his heels. Since that day, the story con- 
cludes, the horse has never been able to come near a camel with- 
out having the most abject terror and fear. 

Now, I don't know whether there is a word of truth in that 
whole story, except the concluding part, but I know that you 
can't get any horse to associate with a camel under any circum- 
stances. I once had a very vivid demonstration of the truth 
of that. In 1871 Dr. Charley Owens and I went down to Galves- 
ton on a pleasure trip. There were no street cars then, as now, 
by which to reach the beach, so we went round to Gregory's 
stable and hired a horse and buggy. The buggy was a brand 
new one, but the horse was evidently second, or even third 
hand. 

We drove out Tremont Street to the beach and by the time 
we got there we were pretty well worn out beating on that horse. 
We could not get him to go faster than a slow trot. Charley 
was for turning back and making the man give us another 
horse, but I talked him out of it, telling him that on the beach 
the drive would be better and probably we would get more 
speed out of the horse. My prediction proved to be true, for 
after we got on the hard sand of the beach the old chap showed 
marked improvement. 

After a short drive we returned and went to Schmidt's Gar- 
den for some refreshments. As soon as we got out of the 
buggy the old horse fell fast asleep, so Charley said there was 
no use to tie him, and there was not, for he slept profoundly 
during the whole time we were in the garden. We came out 
finally and, without awakening the horse; Charley and I got in 
the buggy, intending to play a joke on him and wake him up 
with the whip after we got well settled. But our joke was 
spoiled, for just as Charley gathered up the reins and I 
gathered up the whip a lot of boys came up behind 
us, making such a noise that they actually awoke that old 
plug, and he turned his head to see what was the 
matter. We did the same thing, and saw waddling toward 
us one of the largest and ugliest camels on earth. He was 
right up on us before we knew it. The effect on that horse 
was magical. I have thought over what he did a thousand 
times, but I am no nearer being able to explain it than I was 
then. I don't know how he did it, but he raised his left hind 
leg slowly and carefully and poked his foot right in our faces 
without touching the dashboard. It was an uncanny thing to 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 27 

do, for he kept his other three feet on the ground. He kept 
that left foot right under our noses for the fraction of a second, 
and then he took it down. When he did so he took the dash- 
board and nearly all the front part of the buggy with it. There 
was nothing dignified or deliberate about the way he got him- 
self together. There was a high board fence across the street 
that some billposter had erected to paste bills on. There was 
lots of room on both sides of that billboard, for it was all 
vacant land out there then. But that old horse must have got- 
ten a whiff of the camel's odor, which drove all the little sense 
he had left clean out of him, for he actually made three at- 
tempts to climb over that fence. 

After the third attempt, he looked over his shoulder and see- 
ing the camel between him and town, he turned and headed 
for the Gulf of Mexico at a frightful speed. I heard an awful 
flapping, but could not see anything because the horse raised 
such a dense cloud of dust that we could scarcely breathe. 
When we struck the hard beach I discovered that he had gotten 
his foot through the remnants of the dashboard and that it fitted 
his leg like a bracelet. While the horse was trying to climb 
the billboard, I got a glimpse at the camel, and as scared as I 
was I could not help wondering at the little interest he took in 
the performance of our horse. He did not smile nor show the 
slightest interest in the performance of our plug, though he 
himself was causing all the trouble. 

By the most strenuous effort Charley succeeded in turning 
the horse just as he reached the water's edge and headed him 
down the beach toward Tremont Street. It was Charley's inten- 
tion to turn him into Tremont Street, where the sand was very 
deep, and thus stop his mad career. There was a big sand fort 
that had been erected at the foot of Tremont Street during the 
war and this shut off our view in that direction, so we did not 
see what was coming. Just as Charley began to work the old 
horse round so as to head him into Tremont Street, right there 
in front of us and not 50 yards away, two big elephants and 
three more camels came waddling out from behind the fort 
and headed right for us. 

Charley and I abandoned hope at once, but our horse did bet- 
ter than that, for he abandoned everything. He squatted down 
on the ground, coming to a sudden halt, and actually groaned 
with terror. When he did that the buggy rolled up on him. 
That must have been just what he wanted, for the next moment 
he shot all four feet back at us and smashed everything free 
from himself. Then he turned and if the Old Boy and all his 
fiends had been behind him he could not have gotten away more 



28 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 



quickly. He was there one moment and out of sight down the 
beach the next. 

Charley and I had a long walk back to town. We threatened 
to sue the stableman for damages and he threatened to sue us, 
but finally concluded he had a better case against the circus 
people, who had just come to town. He finally fixed it up with 
them and aside from our long walk Charley and I experienced no 
further inconvenience from our contact with a mixture of Texas- 
raised horse and camels and elephants. 

Being of an inquisitive mind and ever on the lookout for 
explanations of common things, I learned something that day. I 
had heard all my life about the fleetness and running qualities 
of the Arabian steed. I found the solution of the problem that 
day. They have camels in Arabia and the horses over there are 
so in the habit of running away from them and have been doing 
so for so many generations that it has grown to be part of their 
natures. If we had a few camels to stir our horses up for a 
generation or two, judging by the speed our old plug developed 
that day, our mustangs would have the Arabian steeds looking 
like 30 cents before long. 

▼ V V 

A DOUBLE-ACTION GHOST. 

THE other night at the Press Club one of the members told 
about being nearly scared to death one night while pass- 
ing a graveyard by an old white horse. The horse was 
simply grazing about among the tombstones, but he was white, 
was moving, and was in the graveyard. That combination could 
not be resisted and the story-teller left precipitately. 

The story reminded me of an incident that happened a long 
time ago and of which I had not thought for years. A big crowd 
of us went fishing over on White Oak Bayou. The fish began 
biting late in the afternoon and it was nearly dark before we 
thought of leaving for home. May Stanley and I left before the 
others and hurried, too, because we did not care to pass the old 
city graveyard after dark. 

When we got to the graveyard May suggested that we stop 
and play a trick on the other boys. I did not want to linger in 
that locality a single moment, but he persuaded me to stay and 
see the fun. There was an old brick, one-story house used as 
the city powder house, located near the far end of the grave- 
yard, near the bank of the bayou. 

The boys would have to come close past this place, so May 
set his trap there. He took off his white shirt and rigged it 
up on a stick so that when he stood up it looked like a man 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 29 

six or seven feet high. He took his stand or rather his squat 
behind the house and we waited for the boys to come. Soon we 
heard voices and thought the boys were coming. 

I had become interested in the game by now and moved off 
down the fence so as to give the crowd a second shock as they 
passed me. Just as the voices drew near, I chanced to glance 
over in the graveyard and my blood grew cold, for there rapidly 
advancing right down on May was a great big white thing. 

"Look behind you. May!" I yelled, and May looked. When 
he saw what was coming he let out a yell one could hear for 
a mile, and tore out from behind the house with his white scare- 
crow held aloft. He emerged at just what the scientists call the 
psychological moment, for his charge was made just in time to 
bring him face to face with, not the boys, but two negroes who 
were on their way to town. 

The negroes were too scared to yell. They gave sharp grunts 
like two frightened hogs and the next moment dashed down 
the hill and fairly split the bayou wide open in their haste to 
get across. May was too badly scared to realize what he was., 
doing or what was happening. He knew that something terrible 
was behind him and coming face to face with two negro men 
instead of the boys he expected added to his confusion. 

He did not realize that he himself had scared the negroes, 
but "thought that they, too, had seen the ghost and were leaving 
for anywhere to get away from there. He dropped his shirt 
and tore off through the woods in the direction of where Schnei- 
der's swimming hole was afterwards located. 

I was too scared to run or to do anything but stand and gasp. 
However, I soon found out that the ghost was only a big white 
dog, presumably on his way home and taking the nearest way 
through the graveyard. I yelled to May and tried to stop him, 
but he was too frightened to hear me and kept going. 

Not caring to stay near the graveyard alone and hating to pass 
it by myself as I would have to do, I took after May. I did not 
catch up with him until we reached a point near where the 
Grand Central depot is now located. He was completely out 
of breath and was panting like a dog. 

I did not want to do so, but I offered to go back with him to 
get his shirt, but he swore that he would not go back there again 
for a thousand shirts. The other boys had heard the yells and 
when they came to the scene of the disaster they found May's 
shirt and brought it along to him. 

May swore that he would not have become so demoralized 
if he had not have been thinking of a fellow who had committed 
suicide a week or two before right back of the powder house. 
May said that he was thinking what he would do if that suicide 



30 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

should appear suddenly when I called out to him to look behind 
him and he naturally concluded that the fellow had come sure 
enough. 

What the negroes thought or said we never knew, for we never 
heard of them again. I'll bet that to their dying day they 
thought and swore that they had come face to face with that 
man who had killed himself near the old powder house. 

All that part of town is thickly settled now and the old grave- 
yard is almost obliterated and totally neglected. At the time 
I speak of, the graveyard was away out of town and there was 
a dense forest of pine and oak trees surrounding it. The bayou 
too was a large stream, and not the dried up dirty ditch it has 
since become. The setting for the play was perfect and the 
advent of the dog pulled it off to perfection. 

V V V 

DICK FULLER AND THE PROFESSOR. 

IN THE early seventies Dick Fuller returned home from 
college, having acquired at that seat of learning, in addition 
to a smattering of Latin, Greek and mathematics, some- 
thing of an expert's knowledge of the games of billiards, pin 
pool and the use of a shotgun. He was and still is a famous 
shot and delights in hunting. 

About the same time there visited Houston ona of the most 
distinguished educators from an Eastern college. This was a 
gentleman who was every inch a "Southern gentleman," and a 
man who by his fine "mixing" qualities soon became widely 
known and respected by all who knew him. The professor was 
at heart one of the boys, and being far from his base of opera- 
tion and out on a vacation, he relaxed and went in for all the 
good things in sight. He was no mean hand with a billiard cue 
and it was in that way that he and Dick became familiar. The 
truth is that Dick captured the professor by turning his own 
guns on him. The professor commented on Dick's bald head 
and was taken off his heels when Dick came back at him with 
a quotation from one of the Latin classics, proving that hairy 
animals are always the most stupid. The professor appreciated 
the novelty of hearing a Texas youth quote Latin so glibly and 
a friendship between the two began and lasted until the pro- 
fessor's unwilling departure. Had Dick been ambitious to secure 
letters of the alphabet to go behind his name, I am certain that 
all he had to do at that time was to follow the professor to his 
particular college and he could have become a "doctor" of any- 
thing he chose. 

After the professor had been here a week or two he asked 
Dick to take him out shooting. It was August and prairie 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 31 

chickens were "ripe," so Dick gladly agreed to the proposition. 

The next morning by daylight the two were out on the prairie 
by Pierce Junction. But I suspect I had best let Dick tell the 
story of the actual hunt. 

"When the professor came down out of the hotel to get in 
the buggy I scarcely recognized him. He wore a little skull 
cap and had on a canvas hunting jacket that was nothing but 
pockets. He had on knee breeches and high laced shoes and 
was the breathing picture of those photographs you see of kings 
and dukes in the magazines. He had a little shotgun swung 
over his shoulder and a big belt full of cartridges. His uniform 
must have weighed fifty pounds at least, and it was August, too, 
when I wanted to hunt in my shirt-tail. Well, the professor 
said nothing about taking a drink, but I could smell whiskey 
mighty plain, so I knew he had made his peace before coming 
down. 

"The old fellow was very digniiied and very silent all the way 
out. He seemed to be thinking of something and, like that 
famous race horse, he did not seem to have his mind on his 
business. We started in with luck, for we started a drove of 
chickens just across Brays Bayou and I got two. After I started 
to drive on I smelt that whiskey again, though I saw no signs 
of it. When we got to Pierce Junction we got out and soon got 
in among lots of prairie chickens. The sport was fine, for after 
flushing they would fly only a short way and come down again. 
I yelled to the professor to come on, but he stood like a post 
in the prairie with his gun over his arm, and did not pretend 
to t^ke any part in the sport. I gathered up my birds, and going 
to him, I rammed them in his big pockets. It was the funniest 
thing I ever saw. He did not notice me but stood there gazing 
off in the distance. I concluded that some great problem had 
come to him and that it had so absorbed his mind that he was 
oblivious to everything else and did not know what was going on. 

"Finally I killed two more chickens and when I got to the 
professor to put them in his pockets he looked at me in a far- 
away manner and said: 'Dick, why are you discharging that 
fowling piece so often? I see nothing to cause such a fusillade.' 
When I told him I was killing chickens he would not believe me 
and I had to pull them out of his pockets and show them to 
him. When I did so I dislodged a quart bottle of whiskey, half 
empty, and discovered the truth. The professor was as drunk 
as a monkey. It was no common drunk, either, but it was a real 
professorial drunk with all the dignity of his high position 
thrown in. . I have seen lots of various kinds of drunks, but 
that was the first time I recognized the genuine article from 
which the name 'Stone, stiff drunk' came. The professor could 



32 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

do nothing but look. It scared me at first, but I got him in 
the buggy and drove back to town, took him to the hotel and 
had him put to bed. 

"The strange part of the whole thing is that the professor 
never knew a thing about going hunting. The next day when 
I met him he said: 'You rascal, you promised to take me hunt- 
ing yesterday and never showed up.' I tried to convince him 
that he had been out with me, but had to give it up. Finally I 
saw it worried him, so I dropped the subject. I left half the 
chickens at the hotel for him but I don't know whatever became 
of them." 

* * ♦ 

EVERYBODY IS AFRAID OF GHOSTS. 

I DON'T care who he is, where he comes from or what he does, 
when I hear a man say he is not afraid of ghosts, I simply 
do not believe him. I will not go so far as to say that 
I think he is lying, but I will say that I think he is self-deceived 
and talks that way because he has never been tested and does 
not know whether he is afraid of them or not. There is a cer- 
tain amount of latent superstition in every man, which is as 
much a part of his general make-up as is the color of his hair. 
This superstition may lie dormant throughout his entire life, just 
the same, and will spring into activity on the first favorable 
opportunity. 

About the most material, hard-headed man I ever knew was 
Tobe Mitchell, who was managing editor of the Houston Post in 
1883. He hooted at the very idea of haunted houses, ghosts and 
all those sort of things, and expressed a great desire to spend 
a night in a so-called haunted house I had told him about. I 
sat down and gave him a detailed and truthful account of what 
had happened to me, and when he found that he was to neither 
see nor hear anything, and was simply going to feel that the 
room was full of ghosts, all anxious to catch him off his guard 
so they could nab him, he backed out ignominously. He still 
swore the whole thing was a lot of rot, but he absolutely re- 
fused to enter the room after I had made all the arrangements 
for him to occupy it. My story got on his nerves and brought 
out all the latent superstition he had in him. It was all there, 
though he knew nothing of its existence. If he was not afraid 
of ghosts, why did he back out? 

Now, what made me think of ghosts at all was the fact that 
Sunday I took a walk out through Sam Houston Park, and 
while there I thought of an old single-story, two-room brick 
building that stood for years in front of the old Nobles residence 
on San Felipe Street — or rather road. Just when that old build- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 33 

ing was put up I never heard. It must have been at a very 
early period in Houston's history, or else it must have been 
constructed of very inferior material, for when I first became 
acquainted with it, in the late fifties, it was almost a ruin, 
having one side almost completely demolished and the other not 
much better. 

The truth of the adage about giving a dog a bad name was 
never better exemplified than in that old building. For no cause 
on earth some one started a report that the house was haunted. 
All specific information and all details were wanting, and yet in 
an incredibly short time you could not get a negro or a boy in 
Houston to go near that house after dark. I link the negroes and 
boys together in the preceding paragraph, for when it came to 
believing in ghosts or any other superstition they were in a class 
peculiarly their own. 

Now, there was an exception to this fear of ghosts in the per- 
son of John Steel, son of the man who afterward killed Colonel 
Kirby of Hempstead. John was a great big, healthy boy, and 
was as game as a gamecock. He was not afraid of anything, 
living or dead, and talked so contemptuously about our haunted 
house that it made us angry. Finally Charley Gentry bet him 
five dollars that he would not go into that house and remain 
there until daylight alone. There were some other conditions, 
among them being that John should read a certain book. How 
I remember that book! It was called "The Night Side of Na- 
ture," and was a compilation of the most horrible ghost stories, 
all sworn to and authenticated. I borrowed it afterward, but 
took care to read it only in the daytime. 

John agreed to everything, and when the fatal night came we 
escorted him to the house, avoiding the Episcopal graveyard in 
doing so. We had an old chair for him to sit on and left him 
three candles. He was really the only cool and indifferent boy 
in the crowd. 

We went off and hid among some coffee bean weeds near the 
side of the road and watched for developments. We could see 
the light shining through the cracks in the door and also in the 
wall of the old house. We waited and waited, but nothing hap- 
pened. One of the boys crept up and peeped in and came back 
and reported that John was sitting there reading and smoking 
a pipe, "just like old folks." 

Charley Gentry began to get anxious about his five-dollar bet, 
and realized that something had to be done. Finally he an- 
nounced that if anybody would go with him he would get some- 
thing that would move John out of that house in a hurry. 
One of the boys volunteered and they left. They were gone a 
long time, and when they returned we all realized that some- 



34 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

thing was going to happen sure enough. Charley had gone to Dr. 
Robinson's office and stolen a skull. It was a horrible looking 
skull, too. It had no lower jaw, but was well supplied with 
upper teeth, with only one or two missing ones, which added 
to its outrageous appearance. Charley had gotten a big news- 
paper, to do duty as a sheet. He decorated a pole with the 
paper and then stuck the skull on the end of the pole. It was 
about the scariest thing I ever saw. One of the boys slipped 
up and took a look at John. He found him as quiet and well 
satisfied as ever, and so reported to us. Charley was a bit 
anxious about being alone in the dark with that skull, so he 
asked one or two of us to go with him to the house. I went 
and took a stand on one side of the house, where I could see 
everything that happened. There was a big window at one end 
of the room in which John was, and Charley sneaked up to this 
window very carefully. Then he gave an awful groan, scraped 
the skull along the side of the house and poked it right in the 
window, which had no glass in it. 

I knew what the thing was, of course, but I swear I came 
near running when I saw that skull come through the window. 
It was simply awful. John took one look and then Charley 
realized that he had won his bet, for things began to happen. 
John leaped to his feet with a cry like a wild bull. He turned 
over his chair and knocked the candle over, leaving the place 
in darkness. The next moment he was out of the door, carrying 
it and part of the frame with him. When he got outside he 
headed for town and the boys hidden in the weeds said that it 
sounded like a drove of army mules when he passed them. They 
yelled at him, but that simply added to his speed, if that were 
possible. 

We did not see anything of him for several days, and the queer 
thing was that, although Charley Gentry had won the five dol- 
lars, he was afraid to ask John for the money. John swore 
that if ever he found out who did it he would kill the fellow 
who poked "that dead man in on him." 

Now, if anyone doubts the potency of a skull stuck on the end 
of a pole, let him -stick one in the door or window of a non- 
believer in ghosts about midnight, and if he does not get good 
action I stand prepared to eat the skull. I believe even a dead 
man would get up and leave the room. 
•i* V V 

PLENTY OF ACTION— BUT NO GAME. 

A FEW days ago I was over at the Grand Central Depot 
when the Houston and Texas Central train came in and 
several hunters got off with well-filled game bags. The 
sight made me think of a hunt I' once took out on that road. Hock- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 35 

ley was a famous place at that time for duck shooting. Captain 
John Warren had the eating house at Hockley, and, being a great 
hunter himself, he always had parties from over the state visit- 
ing him. The captain had been a game-keeper in England be- 
fore he came to this country and what he did not know about 
guns, dogs and anything pertaining to hunting was not worth 
knowing. He was rather stiff and offish at first acquaintance, 
but would thaw out soon and then he was a most delightful 
companion. 

Dr. Alva Connell and I had an office on Texas Avenue right 
back of where the Binz building now stands, and as neither of 
us had a patient we concluded to go up to Hockley and have 
some fun shooting ducks. We sent a boy over to the depot 
with our guns and traps, and, sticking up a notice reading, 
"Called out of town on professional business. Will return to- 
morrow or next day," we followed the boy and were soon on our 
way to Hockley. 

That was in the early 70's and it had been raining for weeks, 
so we knew there would be plenty of water and consequently 
plenty of ducks. We arrived at Hockley about 4 o'clock in the 
afternoon and called on Captain Warren as soon as we got 
there. He sized us up as two dudes and seemed to be rather 
afraid of us. He hesitated a long time about letting us have 
a rig, but finally consented to do so. I don't think he would 
have done so at all if Connell had not mentioned my grand- 
father, who was paymaster of the Central at that time. Having 
secured the rig, which was a two-wheeled gig, and Connell 
having negotiated successfully for a pony, the captain very re- 
luctantly consented to lend us his dog. Now this dog was of 
royal descent and had better blood in his veins, in Captain War- 
ren's opinion, than had any member of the royal family. 

The captain gave us the most minute instructions about how 
to treat the dog and said he would not have anything happen 
to him for any money. The dog seemed to mistrust us as much 
as the captain did, for when we got ready to start he would 
not follow us at all. Then the captain got a rope and hitched 
the dog on behind my gig and we started off in great shape. 
The captain directed us where to go and we crossed the rail- 
road track and set off across the prairie. 

When we were about two miles out several snipe, showing 
the utmost contempt for us and our guns, settled down on the 
prairie not 20 feet from where we were. Connell jumped off 
his horse and, handing me the bridle, began to advance on the 
snipe. Just as he got by my horse's head the snipe flew up 
and Connell fired at them. Up to that point I had been using 
the whip on the horse to make him go at all. Now his whole 



36 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

character changed, as if by magic. He gave one mighty leap 
at the crack of that gun and spilled everything but me out of 
the gig. It was the funniest leap you ever saw. He went 
fully 20 feet and when he lit he came down on his hind legs 
and ran 20 feet further on his hind legs just like folks. Then 
he made a mighty plunge, lowering his head just as if he were 
going to turn a somersault. When he did that he snapped one 
of the reins off close to the bit. Evidently thinking that he was 
free, he began a series of the most disgraceful antics, and at 
times I really believe he thought of getting in the gig with me 
and riding home. His conduct was scandalous. Then he sud- 
denly changed his mind, gave up his circus performance and 
bolted in dead earnest. 

There was water and mud everywhere, and he threw up tons 
of both, it seemed to me, at every plunge he made. If the 
concern had had four wheels he would have smashed up things 
and made his escape, but being a two-wheel concern it could 
turn as rapidly as he, and did so. When he settled down to 
ever running I began to pull on the one rein, for I did not want 
to run clear out of the county and leave Connell there. His 
horse made a bee-line for home the moment he found himself 
loose. 

My horse completed one of the most graceful curves that was 
ever made on that prairie and was just beginning to make 
another near where we had started when some ducks flew 
over, and Connell took a shot at them. That settled everything. 
My horse became absolutely frantic. He whirled round first to 
the right and then, changing his mind when he found himself 
facing Connell and his gun, he gave a mighty leap, and it seemed 
to me, in two different directions at the same time. The result 
was that I was thrown out of the gig into a mass of mud and 
water, and the horse was free. There was a terrible splashing 
of water and mud as that horse passed me. He had the gall 
to take a good look at me before leaving for good and I fancied 
I could see him grinning. The next moment he was headed for 
Hockley at a gait that would have won him fame and renown 
had he been on a race track. As he departed I made a horrible 
discovery. There was that thousand-dollar dog of the captain's 
tied fast behind a gig being dragged at an incredible speed 
through mud and water, right into the captain's presence. Con- 
nell and I got together and held a consultation. We watched 
the horse and dog approach Hockley and to our consternation, 
just as they got to the railroad crossing a freight train blew 
Its whistle and that fool horse took fresh fright. Instead of 
stopping at home, as he evidently intended doing at first, he 
took a fresh start, passed clear through the town and the last 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 37 

we saw of him lie was trying to make his way into the next 
county north of Hockley. Connell and I started to walk to 
Cypress, stay there all night and catch the morning train into 
Houston, but the mud and water conquered even our fear of 
Captain Warren, so we trudged back to Hockley. 

We found the captain so mad he could hardly talk, but for- 
tunately the dog had sustained no serious injury. He was a 
sight, though, and if we had dared to do so we would have had 
a good laugh at him. He was such a mass of mud that you 
could not tell whether he was a dog, calf or what he was. 

It was nearly dark now, so we had to give up all idea of hunt- 
ing that evening; we sat by a good fire and dried our clothes 
while the captain told us about hunting in England. He prom- 
ised to wake us at daylight, but he did not do so, and when we 
awoke it was nearly train time. I thought then and have 
thought ever since that he let us sleep on purpose to keep from 
turning us down when we asked for another hunting rig. We 
got up and after a good breakfast took our things over to the 
depot to catch the train, which we could see coming in the dis- 
tance. Connell said he hated to go home without killing any- 
thing, so he took his gun and went back of a big barn where 
there were thousands of blackbirds. We waited to hear him 
shoot, but he did not do so. Then, just as the engine blew 
for the station, we heard his gun go off and he came from the 
barn terribly excited and running to catch the train, which 
stopped only for a moment. As he came up he cried out "Cap- 
tain, I killed a big fox back of your barn, I did not have time 
to get him, but I wish you would do so and send him to me." 

"Now," said the captain, almost speechless with indignation, 
"you have played . You have killed my pet fox." 

We waited to hear no more, but dived onto the train and were 
thankful to feel it moving the next moment. That was about 
the most strenuoHs hunt I ever went on. It is true the only 
thing we killed was a pet fox, but we had action for our money 
during every moment we spent in Hockley. 

* 4« * 

EARLY FIREMEN GALLANT SOLDIERS. 

JUDGE JAMES K. P. GILLASPIE, who was at one time chief 
of the old volunteer fire department, has in his possession, 
the books of Hook and Ladder No. 1, which he allowed 
me to look over a day or two ago. I found much of interest In 
these books, but, as was the case with Judge Anders' old court 
records, it was the memories evoked rather than anything else 
that appealed to me. One portion in particular was the record 
which began in 1859 and broke off suddenly in 1861, to be re- 



38 • TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

sumed again in 1865, with nearly all new names. The great 
war had intervened between those two dates. The last meeting 
of the company, before the war, was held in May, 1861. As a 
matter of general interest I give the roster of the company at 
that time: 

Officers^E. R. Bremond, foreman; Ed Riordan, assistant fore- 
man; J. B. Cato, secretary; G. L. Griscom, assistant secretary; 

D. K. Rice, treasurer; J. C. Baldwin, president; F. H. Bailey, 
vice president. 

Members— R. A. Allen, W. H. Allen, T. P. Brain, J. S. Benton, 

E. A. Burke, C. Buckley, W. H. Clark, C. A. Darling, R. W. De 
Lesdernier, T. P, Evert, Charles Eika, C. G. Fisher, H. Fleish- 
man, A. J. Hay, F. L. Hoffman, A. J. Hurley, J. W. Mangum, 
J. R. Morris, C. H. Merriman, A. S. Mair, George Merriweather, 
J. D. McClary, Thomas O'Donnell, Louis Pless, G. W. Perkins, 

F. A. Rice, I. C. Shaffer, J. H. Sawyer, W. C. Timmins, Ed 
White, W. F. Wright, W. Williams, C. Westlake. 

Now some person has marked in the book certain notes giving, 
here and there, information concerning these old members. 
These notes are very brief and do not do justice to the memory 
of the men. For instance, opposite the name of F. L. Hoffman, 
is this entry: "Killed by the Yankeys." The others are equally 
as brief and unsatisfying. Now as I chance to know some of 
them and of the records they made in the Confederate army, 
I propose to give a brief history of them and ask Judge Gil- 
laspie to paste it in the old book. As a matter of fact nearly 
every member of the company went into the Confederate army. 
I. C. Stafford organized the first company that left Houston and 
rose to the rank of major. Ed Riordan also left as captain of 
a company. Captain F. A. Rice served on Magruder's staff, 
I believe. There were a number of others, who I am sure were 
in the army, though I am not certain where they served. I do 
know all about five of them, because they were members of 
Hood's Texas Brigade, all but one, Captain Dave Rice, belong- 
ing to the Bayou City Guards, Company A, Fifth Texas Regi- 
ment. 

T. P .Bryan was killed at the battle of the Wilderness, on May 
6, 1864. 

J. W. DeLesdernier was killed at Gains' Farm, June 27, 1862. 

W. H. Clark belonged to Company A, and after Onderdonk, the 
color bearer, was disabled at Gains' Farm, he became color 
bearer for the Fifth Regiment. Clark was' badly wounded In 
Chickamauga, September 19, 1863, and was again dangerously 
wounded while bearing the colors at the Wilderness, May 6, 
1864. This last time he was incapacitated for further service 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 39 

and was sent home. He lived several years after the war and 
died in Austin. 

C. A. Merriman belonged to Company A, Fifth Regiment. He 
was wounded in one of the first skirmishes his company got in, 
and was then attacked by what the doctors said was galloping 
consumption. He was honorably discharged from the army and 
returned to Texas to die. During the winter of 1862 the Federal 
war vessel, the Harlot Lane, had anchored in the Potomac and 
kept up an almost constant bombardment of the winter quarters 
of the Texas brigade. Charley Merriman got back to Texas 
late in the fall of 1862 and when he learned that Magruder was 
organizing his forces to take Galveston and that the Hariot 
Lane was one of the vessels there, he volunteered to go down 
on the Bayou City, one of the Confederate boats, that was to 
attack the Federal vessels. He was more than half dead any 
way. He was in the fight that took place January 1, 1863, 
and had the pleasure of getting even with the Lane, by helping 
to capture her. Now here a miracle was worked. Merriman 
had his arm badly shattered by a piece of shell and he was shot 
right through the lung. His arm got well and what was more 
remarkable, the bullet through his lung cured his consumption. 
He was never troubled with his lung after that and got so fat 
and healthy that he returned to Virginia and remained with his 
comrades till the close of the war. 

The other member whose record I know was Captain Dave 
Rice, the youngest brother of Wm. M. and F. A. Rice. He was 
one of the handsomest men to be found anywhere. He was per- 
haps too effeminate looking, for he had the complexion of a girl. 
His complexion was the only effeminate thing about him, for he 
was a man, every inch of him, and one of the most gallant sol- 
diers in Lee's army. He was captain of Company C, First Texas 
Regiment, but did more duty as a field officer than as a com- 
pany commander. He was in command of the First Regiment 
at the battle of Chickamauga, September 19 and 20, 1863, and 
had quite a strange experience there on the first day's fight. 
He was captured and taken before General Rosecrans. Of 
course he refused to give any information, but the general kept 
him with him and for two hours he was literally under the fire 
of both armies. I say "under," for that's what he was. His own 
brigade was on one hill and the Federals were on an opposite 
hill, while Rosecrans and his staff were in the narrow and deep 
valley, so that all the fighting went on over their heads. Late 
that night an opportunity presented itself and Captain Rice made 
his escape, but was unable to get back to his command for sev- 
eral weeks. 

I wish I knew something about the war records of the other 



40 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

members, for it would give me great pleasure to write them 
down here. 

4» * ♦ 

A HARD LUCK STORY. 

I READ a "hard luck" story the other day and it reminded 
me that Frank Le Mott had once told me one of the best 
stories of the kind I have ever heard. One day Frank said 
to me: "Did I ever tell you about Limpy Lewis' hard luck?" 
and when I answered in the negative he told me the following: 

"This Limpy Lewie gets his name from having a wooden leg 
that is always wearing off at the bottom, so that it is too short 
for his good leg. He walks lopsided when he prances along the 
street and the boys get to calling him 'Limpy.' He is a no- 
count kind of a fellow, a tramp soldier of fortune, and a gambler. 
When he wins he rolls in good things to eat and when he loses 
he bums for his grub. It's chicken one day and feathers the 
next with him. He is a good-natured sort of chap and the 
other gamblers help him along occasionally, when they have 
anything to help him with. The men who own the games give 
him a commission on all the customers he can bring them, so 
he generally hangs out around the hotels early in the evening, 
looking for suckers. 

"One morning Limpy got hold of a greenhorn and when the 
bank got through with him Limpy had a real good stake coming 
to him. He thought he was in such good luck that he would go 
against the bank himself and did so. At first he won and had 
a big pile of chips in front of him for an hour or two. Then 
his luck changed and he lost everything he had. He got up 
dead broke and concluded to go out and find another sucker. 
While going to the nearest hotel to look over the situation, he 
met a tall stranger, dressed like a cowman. The stranger asked 
him if he could direct him to a square game. Limpy told him 
he knew exactly where to put his finger on it and invited him 
to go with him. As they started the stranger told him he 
wanted nothing but a square game, and if he would lead him to 
one of that kind, he would give him a quarter of what he won, 
if he did win. He did that to protect himself, for with that pros- 
pect in sight Limpy would pull for him to win, even if he were 
playing against Limpy's best friend. There was no mixing of 
sentiment and business when Limpy had a case like that. Limpy 
was going to take him against a brace game, but when the 
stranger mentioned that quarter share for him he changed his 
mind and took him to the best and squarest game in town. 

"When they got there the stranger bought $500 worth of chips 
and wanted to make two bets of the whole thing. That 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 41 

was too big for the bank and considerable argument took place, 
the stranger trying to get the bank to raise the limit and let 
him bet his money. At last the limit was raised to $200, except 
on "case cards," when it was fixed at $100. 

"When the game got to going good, the proprietor took Limpy 
off on one side and told him he was glad to see him and his 
friend, and that he was going to be liberal with him and give 
him 20 per cent of all the house won from the stranger and that 
he would do the same thing on all customers like this one he 
could bring him. 

"The stranger was a big cattle man who was famous for his 
big bets and gambling. In an hour or so it looked like he was 
going to break the bank. He had about $8000 worth of chips in 
front of him and was scattering them in heaps of $200 all over 
the table. Then for a few hours luck went one way and then 
the other. It was daylight now and the game was just warming 
up. By 10 o'clock the stranger was in the hole for about $20,000, 
but still bought chips and showed no signs of quitting. Limpy 
sat there, half dead for sleep, but afraid to go to sleep or to 
leave for a moment. The luck changed and the stranger began 
to win again. By 5 o'clock the stranger had all his money back 
and was a few thousand ahead. Then he struck a good deal 
and quit it about $18,000 ahead. Limpy was crazy for him to 
cash In and quit, but was afraid to say a word, so all he could 
do was to sit there and suffer. The game went on, first one and 
then the other being ahead. The dealers and lookouts had been 
changed two or three times, of course, but Limpy and the 
stranger had to stay there in person. 

"For convenience's sake the value of the chips had been placed 
at $100 each, so it was not hard to keep track of the winnings 
and losses. About 4 o'clock the second morning the stranger 
took stock and found he was just $900 ahead of the game. He 
said to the proprietor: 'If you say so I will make one bet of this, 
for I'm getting tired. It's double or nothing. Shall she go?' 
The proprietor agreed, the bet was made and the stranger lost. 
He got up and quit, exactly even, and poor old Limpy fainted. 
He had sat there for two nights and a day, drinking coffee to 
keep awake and with a sure winning for himself in sight all the 
time, until the last minute. 

"That," sa4d Frank, "was the toughest luck I ever heard of." 
* 4* 4« 

A PRESS CLUB EVENING. 

THE HOUSTON PRESS CLUB Is rather a remarkable 
aggregation. More so than the members themselves 
realize. Seated around a table in the reading room a 
few evenings ago was a representative of Grant's army of the 



42 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Potomac, another of Lee's army of Northern Virginia, two men 
who had served through the South African war, one with the 
Boers and the other with the English, a Philippine veteran and 
one or two others, whose claim to fame rested on the fact that 
they had seen much of the world, having been wanderers and 
adventure seekers. On the whole, these last were the most 
interesting members of the group. 

The talk drifted from the Potomac to Ladysmith, from Cuba 
to the Philippines, drifted about over Central and South America 
and finally cast anchor in the magazine offices and theatres, 
where newspaper men generally come to rest. There was a 
guest present who, I have since heard, held a clinical position 
in the advertising department of a New York newspaper some 
years ago. At the proper time he seized the central position 
in the talk and soon had everybody "backed off the boards," 

"I saw Jack London last month," he said. "In fact, I was with 
him for several weeks — went over to Salt Lake City from San 
Francisco with him. He is writing a new book — best one he 
ever wrote. Jack is a bird — easiest thing in the world for him 
to write. On the train something happened that reminded him 
of a story. He got out his pad, scribbled off a couple of thou- 
sand words, put it in an envelope and mailed it on the train. 
About a week after we arrived in Salt Lake there came a letter 
from the Saturday Evening Post, containing a check for $1000 
and asking for more." 

"Do you ever write fiction?" I asked him. I knew that he 
dealt in it, but I wanted to know if he ever sold any of it. 

"Sure thing," he replied. "Make my living writing stories. 
Have never had one sent back yet. Got $75 for the first one I 
ever sent in and it was only about 700 words. Happened to 
hit 'em the first time and have been hitting 'em ever since." 

"Yes, sir," chimed in the voice of the Boer veteran. "I was 
there. I had a big store on the outskirts of Johannesberg, and 
was doing good business when the war began. I was trying to 
sell out so as to join the army when a company of English cav- 
alry come along. I had a big warehouse filled with hay. The 
officer In command belonged to the quartermaster department 
and was out searching for provender. He offered me a good 
price for the hay. I accepted his offer and he paid cash. He 
left, going South. About an hour later another party of English 
came along. The officer in command was a young lieutenant 
who was very pompous and dignified. He recognized me as a 
native, and, rightfully, concluded that I was a rebel. He saw 
the hay and fearing that it would fall in the hands of the Boers 
if left there, ordered it burned. I told him that an English 
captain had bought it and that it belonged to his own people, 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 43 

but he would not listen to me. He ordered me to stand aside 
and set fire to the hay much to my secret delight. I lost $30,000, 
got wounded three times and suffered greatly during the war, 
but that fellow burning hay compensated me for everything I 
went through. Every time I think of it I feel better." 

"Before Teddy butted into their game those Panama chaps 
used to be 'some soon' on revolutions," chimed in the deep bass 
voice of the ex-telegraph operator, ex-all around newspaper man 
and ex-gentlemanly tramp. "The first day I got down there they 
pulled off two, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I 
was taking a drink when I heard some shots fired up the street. 
The 'barkeep' went crazy in a minute, uttering the Spanish 
equivalent for 'Give me liberty or give me death,' he seized an 
old hoss-pistol, leaped the counter and tore up the street. I 
followed him to the door, but when I saw about 50 ragged, dirty- 
looking fellows coming down the street, shooting old-fashioned 
muzzle-loading shotguns and muskets, right and left, I went out 
of the back door, swam the river and quit the revolution right 
there. In a couple of hours the revolution was over and the 
new government had been established. I determined to return 
to town. But just as I got to the bridge another revolution 
broke out, only a block away. It was a revolution to overthrow 
the revolution that had taken place in the morning. I went 
under the bridge and lay there until it was over. Then I crawled 
out and left town for good." 

"Why," said one of two gentlemen who had been comparing 
notes on Arizona, New Mexico and Mexico, "that mine you 
speak of is nothing. Six years ago a party of five of us left 
New Orleans for Mexico. I got sick and had to turn back. The 
other four went on and a month after they got there discovered 
a rich gold mine. The ore assayed more than $1000 to the ton. 
They got the German consul interested with the result that they 
sold the mine to a German syndicate for $4,000,000 in gold. 
The syndicate put up fine machinery and went to work, but in 
a week the ore played out. It was only a 'pocket'." 

Now, one can judge from these fragments of conversation 
just what an interesting place the Houston Press Club is. As 
a matter of fact there may not be a successful author or play- 
wright in the crowd, but that does not bar claims nor assertions, 
and if there are no really successful writers there should be for 
there is plenty of raw material on hand, and one has only to 
keep one's ears open to get everything necessary for the mak- 
ing of a short story, book or drama right from first hand. 

The Press Club is a great institution and its members are 
great, too — ^if you let them tell it. 



44 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

HOUSTON'S POLICE FORCE. 

EVEN after Houston had received a charter and had .a 
regularly elected city marshal (now called chief of 
police), police matters were more or less in the hands of 
the sheriff. There was never any jealousy, conflict of authority 
or anything of that sort. The question was a simple one. If 
the sheriff happened to be present he acted, and the same was 
true of the marshal. No questions were asked by the absent 
one or his friends, and everything moved along smoothly. 

The office of city marshal and market master were combined 
at first, and Captain Newt. Smith, a veteran of San Jacinto, 
had the distinction of being the first city marshal of Houston. 
He was a small man, but a very game and determined one, and 
never had the least trouble in enforcing his authority, because 
the evildoers knew to resist him meant disaster to themselves, 
so they submitted gracefully. He served until 1844, when he 
voluntarily retired to private life and was succeeded by a name- 
sake, Captain "Billy" Smith. 

The old records do not contain anything that gives evidence 
of Captain "Billy" having had anything except an easy, quiet 
time during the five years of his incumbency. 

Captain "Billy" was succeeded by Captain Bob Boyce, who was 
very much such a man as the first marshal, Captain Newt. 
Smith. Captain Boyce was rather too aggressive, perhaps, 
quick-tempered and willing to go rather more than half-way to 
meet trouble. He was a regular gamecock, and after his true 
character as a fighter became known he had little difficulty 
in asserting his authority. Captain Boyce held office for about 
twelve years, and though he had numerous chances he never 
had to actually kill any one. 

Either in 1860 or 1861 I. C. Lord was elected city marshal 
after a rather heated and exciting campaign. Had Mr. Lord 
known what he had to encounter before he got through, it is 
doubtful if he would not have quit the race before he started it. 
His term of office extended through the four years of the war 
and through three or four years after the war, during the be- 
ginning of the reconstruction period. The latter part of his 
incumbency was never dull nor unexciting for a moment. There 
was always something doing night and day. 

That is not to be wondered at when it is remembered that 
Houston at that time had something of rather worse than a 
mixed population. There were returned Confederate soldiers 
out of employment, tough Federal soldiers, gamblers, cut-throats, 
thugs and bad men of every description, while, worse than all 
else combined, there were thousands of newly-freed, ignorant 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 45 

and idle negroes who were completely under the control of de- 
signing carpetbaggers, who were constantly putting them up 
to do something to enrage the white men. Slung-shooting 
and highway robberies were of almost nightly occurrence, 
and every man carried his life in his own hands and knew 
that he did so. 

To contend with conditions such as these. Marshal Lord had 
only four or five policemen, who were expected to look after 
the whole city night and day. However, there was one thing 
that saved the officers much trouble. Each citizen knew that 
he was expected to take care of himself, and did so. 

Perhaps the presence of Davis' regiment here did more to 
cause trouble than anything else. This was a notorious Federal 
regiment commanded by E. J. Davis, afterward reconstruction 
governor of the State. It was called a "Texas regiment," and 
was made up of deserters from the Confederate army, Mexi- 
cans, negroes, thugs and a generally undesirable element of 
society. They had not made camp here a week before robberies 
and knockdowns began to occur. 

Finally there were dead soldiers found once or twice each 
week on the back streets, and as these dead soldiers had hand- 
kerchiefs tied over their faces and slung-shots tied to their 
wrists, it was not difficult to guess why they had died. No one 
ever knew the details of their taking off, for the surviving 
actors were not anxious to brag about their share in it, since 
it was an easy thing for the Federal authorities to claim that 
the affair was a murder pure and simple, and that the robbery 
features had been introduced by the slayer, after the death, 
in order to make it appear justifiable. There was practically 
martial law here then, and to get in the hands of the Federal 
military authorities was a very serious matter. 

To show how severe the military authorities were the follow- 
ing instance is given: One of the Houston policemen was shot 
at by a drunken Federal soldier, whom the policeman tried to 
arrest for trying to kick in the door of a millinery establishment 
on Main Street. To protect himself, the policeman was forced 
to shoot the soldier. He did not kill him, but he might as well 
have done so, for he was arrested, thrown in the guardhouse 
and had a terrible time before he was released. Finally, after 
several of the lawbreakers had been killed by the citizens, they 
concluded that the business was too Unhealthy and quit it. 

But the marshal and police force had troubles of their own 
in the way of keeping the disorderly negroes in line. There 
were, as already stated, a number of trifling, irresponsible white 
politicians here who were constantly stirring the negroes up and 
causing them to make bad breaks. They organized what was 



46 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

called "The Loyal Legion," a secret political party, composed 
mainly of carpet bag white men and trifling negroes. The 
white men always kept in the background but they shoved the 
negroes forward, with the result that when any killing was neces- 
sary a negro furnished the victim. 

One morning in the early sixties, a negro preacher and fifty 
or more negroes went to the city jail with the announced in- 
tention of taking a negro out of jail and lynching him, because 
he was a democratic negro and because he had shot another 
negro who had tried to assassinate him the night before. Mar- 
shal Lord attempted to argue with them, but the preacher put 
an end to all talk by slipping up behind the marshal and trying 
to blow his brains out. Fortunately, some one knocked the pis- 
tol aside and the marshal escaped with no further damage than 
the loss of his hair on one side of his head. 

Alex Erichsen and Martin Ravell, two of the marshal's force, 
were there and without hesitation opened fire on the negroes, 
who attempted to rush the marshal. There was a quick volley 
and when the smoke cleared away there were several dead 
negroes on the ground. The preacher escaped for a moment, 
but was killed by Erichsen a few minutes after. 

That incident is given here just to show what a strenuous 
time the "force" had in those days. 

In 1868 Governor Davis turned Marshal Lord out of office and 
appointed Captain A. K. Taylor marshal. Captain Taylor, as 
all old Houstonians know, was an elegant gentleman. He took 
possession of the office, but within a few weeks he became so 
disgusted with his surroundings that he sent in his resignation 
and retired to private life. The situation was too tough for him. 

The governor then appointed Captain M. S. Davis to the place. 
He was a former army officer and a fair man, so he soon made 
friends with the people and never had serious trouble during 
his tenure of office. 

The Democrats having secured control of the state in the 
November election in 1873, the charter of Houston was amended 
in January, 1874, by the terms of which the governor was given 
the authority to appoint all city officials, an authority he used 
at once by kicking out all the Republicans and appointing rep- 
resentative men to the offices. 

By a singular oversight, no provision was made in the new 
charter for a city marshal. That complicated things for a while, 
but the problem was solved by Major S. S. Ashe, who was sheriff 
at that time. He made Henry Thompson nominally city mar- 
shal and gave him twelve or more deputy sheriffs to act as 
policemen until the defect in the charter could be remedied. 
When everything was put in shape an election was held and 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 47 

Henry Thompson was elected city marshal and made one of the 
best the city has ever had. 

It must not be supposed that the Democrats getting in power 
settled the negro question, and that Marshal Thompson and his 
officers had an easy time. On the contrary, their defeat ap- 
peared to make the negroes worse than ever, though they 
worked more secretly and acted more under cover. 

After Marshal Thompson retired Alex Erichsen was elected 
and held office for a year or two. Erichsen was one of the 
coolest and bravest men that ever lived. He was absolutely 
fearless, but he had one fatal defect. He had too much per- 
sonality to make a perfect officer. By that is meant that he 
could never realize that he was an officer first and Alex Erich- 
sen next. If a drunken prisoner swore at him he took the thing 
as a personal insult and resented it as such. This defect in 
his character led to a bloody encounter between him and a 
prominent gambler, in which both came neay losing their lives. 
He kept perfect discipline and was absolutely honest, so that 
on the whole he made a good officer, far above the average, 
if not a perfect one. 

After Erichsen retired there were rapid and frequent changes 
in the office of city marshal. Among those who filled the office 
were John Morris, who was killed some years ago. He was a 
regular bulldog kind of a fellow. He carried things with a strong 
hand, would stand no interference and did just what he pleased. 
He was game all the way through, and would go out of his way 
to get into a difficulty rather than try to avoid one. He was a 
good officer, though, and made a fine marshal. He was suc- 
ceeded by Gus Railey, who in turn was succeeded by Charley 
Wichman. 

Over in the police office on Preston and Caroline is a book, 
yellow with age and dingy with dirt and dust. This old book 
is marked on its cover, "Time Book." Its first entry is dated 
1882 and is made up of a record of the police department of 
that time. Charles Wichman was "chie? of police," for the title 
had been changed from "marshal;" W. Glass was deputy chief. 
W. H. Smith and F. W. McCutchin were the day force, while 
B. F. Archer, Jack White, James Daily and Nat Davis were the 
night force. It is believed that not one of the men named in 
the foregoing is alive today. 

It is to be regretted that the keepers of this old book have 
seen fit to abbreviate all the entries instead of filling out the 
items, have been content to make only the briefest mention of 
facts that had about them material for most interesting stories. 
On November 1, 1885, an entry chronicles the appointment of 
the first mounted officers. They were J. E. Jemison and George 



48 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Penticost. The entry refers to them as "cow catchers." 

W. W. Glass resigned February 19, 1886. J. Fitzgerald was 
clerk June 1, 1886. Alex Erlchson was again chief of police in 
1892 and B. W. McCarthy was clerk at the same time. 

James H. Pruett was chief and A. R. Anderson deputy in 1894. 

Under date March 17, 1882, is recorded: "Officer Richard 
Snow killed in the Fifth ward." That is all. No mention is 
made of who killed him nor of why he kiled him. 

February 8, 1886, the following entry is made: "Henry Wil- 
liams killed by Kyle Terry at Market square." 

"March 14, 1891, J. E. Fenn was killed by Henry McGee." 

Under date of September 17, 1893, is recorded the accidental 
killing of Officer Pat Walsh, who dropped his pistol when getting 
off a street car, it being discharged and inflicting a fatal wound 
on the officer. 

One of the greatest tragedies that has ever occurred in police 
circles here is discussed with a mere statement of facts, under 
date July 28, 1901. W. A. Weiss, an officer was shot and killed 
by J. T. Vaughn, who was, in turn, shot and killed by another 
officer a few minutes later. This case created immense excite- 
ment at the time. 

So far as excitement is concerned, this case was overshadowed 
by one that is recorded in the old book under date December 
11, 1901. As usual only a few lines, giving merely a statement 
of facts, is the record. Sid Preacher shot and killed J. C. James, 
a policeman, with a shotgun. After killing James, Preacher 
whirled and killed Policeman Herman Youngst. Just as Preach- 
er started to go away another policeman arrived on the scene 
and shot Preacher dead. 

These extracts are given to illustrate the fact that the path- 
way of the peace officer is not strewn with roses by any means. 

Of course, it is not necessary to review the history of the 
department during recent years, for all are familiar with it. 

* 4> 4» 

FRANK LE MOTT'S ROMANCE. 

I KNOW exactly how a fellow feels after he has entered 
blindly into a dark conspiracy and agreed to do the will 
of a beautiful wman for no other reason than that she 
was a young and beautiful woman." 

That was the way Frank Le Mott of Galveston began what 
proved to be one of the best stories I ever heard him tell. 
There was quite a crowd of us out at the Breakers bathhouse 
at Galveston, and everybody moved closer to hear the story 
we knew was coming. 

"Two weeks ago," Le Mott continued, "I had an adventure. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 49 

not four blocks from this very place, that fairly took my breath 
away. But it started downtown and was two or three days 
culminating. 

"Monday afternoon I was standing on the corner of Tre- 
mont and Market when one of the most beautiful and prom- 
inent ladies in the city drove by. Just as she was opposite 
where I was standing she bowed and smiled. I thought, of 
course, that she was bowing to some acquaintance behind me 
and took no notice of it. She drove down the street and when 
she returned she repeated the bow and smiled so sweetly that 
there was no mistaking that it was all meant for me, and in a 
moment I was regularly sweeping the sidewalk with my hat. 
The next evening the same thing was repeated and when she 
came back she ordered her driver to come near the curb and 
beckoned for me to come to her." 

At this point of the story a little fellow named Smith, which 
was really his name, butted in. He was so excited that he could 
scarcely talk. "I'll bet you a thousand dollars to one I can 
' call her name," he said. "Don't be afraid, Frank, I won't give 
you away, but if you will come to one side I'll whisper it to you 
and you'll see I'm right." 

Le Mott paid no attention to Smith, but went on with his story. 

"When I got near the carriage the lady leaned out, and calling 
me by my name, asked me if she could trust me. You bet I 
told her she could, and that I would willingly die (to be tpf 
service to her. She told me not to be rash in making extrava- 
gant promises, because she was going to hold me to any promise 
I might make. Then she drove away after asking me to be at 
the same place the next afternoon at 5 o'clock." 

Here Smith butted in again, swearing that he knew the lady 
and that he would bet any one present a thousand dollars and 
leave it to Le Mott to say if he was wrong or not. He also 
repeated his assurance to Le Mott that he need not fear his di- 
vulging the name. Le Mott did not notice the interruption fur- 
ther than to remain silent until we could shut Smith off, then 
he continued: 

"The next afternoon I was on the spot an hour ahead of time. 
Promptly at 5 that carriage drove up and the lady, calling me 
to her, managed to slip me a dainty little note, which I slipped 
into my pocket." Here Smith became terribly excited and 
insisted on whispering the lady's name in Le Mott's ear, but 
we interfered and got him quiet after some trouble. 

"She then drove away, after giving me a sweet smile, and I 
hastened to a secluded place where I could read that note. It 
was very short and was simply this: 'Meet me tomorrow after- 
noon on the boulevard near the foot of Tremont Street at as 



50 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

near 4 o'clock as possible.' There was no address nor signa- 
ture. 

"That night I could scarcely close my eyes and time passed 
terribly slow. The, next afternoon I was again away ahead of 
time and walked up and down the boulevard until I almost 
knew every brick in .it. Finally I saw her carriage drive up 
at the foot of Tremont and she got out and came toward me. 
I walked forward to meet her, but when she drew near I was 
completely taken off my feet, for instead of looking at me she 
looked past me and sailed by as coldly as an iceberg, without 
ever, apparently, knowing I was on the face of the earth. She 
cut me dead. I felt like a fool and, turning to see what could 
have caused her to act that way, I found the explanation, and 
it made -my blood run cold, too, for not fifty feet behind me 
was her husband, who had been following me." Here Smith 
began to swear that now he knew he was right and could call 
the lady's name. 

Le Mott looked at him reproachfully and he went on with 
his story. 

"The lady advanced to meet her husband, but instead of the 
scene I expected to see they met in the most friendly way, stood 
chatting for a few moments and then she turned and together 
they walked to where the carriage was standing. When they 
got there he got in and, smiling at her, drove away to town. 
She waited until he was a few blocks away and then she came 
toward me, smiling and holding out both hands in the most 
friendly way. I admit I was mystified and could make neither 
heads nor tails of the whole thing, but having gone that far, I 
made up my mind to see the whole thing through. 

"She led me up the boulevard for two or three blocks and 
then turned down a side street. I am not going to say where 
we went, but she led me to an elegant residence and taking a 
key from her satchel she unlocked the door and invited me in." 

Here we had almost to hold Smith to keep him from whisper- 
ing to Le Mott the location of that house. He knew it exactly 
and could, with Le Mott's permission, lead the crowd there in 
a few minutes. 

"The house seemed absolutely vacant," continued Le Mott. 
"We passed through a hall and entered an elegantly furnished 
bedroom. Here for the first time her courage seemed to desert 
her and she realized what she was doing. She wanted me to 
leave the room and house at once. She seemed so scared and 
anxious that she began to get me rattled, but I had no idea of 
giving up after having gone that far. I begged her to 'calm 
herself and tell me what she wanted me to do for her. Instead 
of getting quieter she began to weep and cry out against her- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 51 

self for having acted so imprudently with an entire stranger. 
'My husband would kill me and you too,' she said, 'if he caught 
us here alone, and I have an idea that he suspects me and is 
watching.' 

"All that did not make me feel any too comfortable, but to 
tell the truth I would have rather had dealings with the hus- 
band just then than with the hysterical woman in a strange 
house. 

"Finally I got her quieted enough to sit down and talk sen- 
sibly and she was just beginning to tell me her story — " 

Here Smith butted in with the declaration that he was going 
to name both the husband and woman, whether Le Mott liked 
it or not. 

"Wait until I finish. Smith," said Le Mott, "and then if you 
know you may tell." That was the only time he had noticed 
Smith at all. 

"She had just begun to tell me how she feared the vengeance 
of her husband, when there was a terrible crash right back of 
me and — " Here Le Mott paused a long time and looked steadily 
at Smith. "And then I woke up, for a window had fallen at 
the head of my bed and ruined my afternoon nap." 

At this unexpected conclusion of the story, Smith subsided. 
We were all taken in, but Smith was obliterated completely. 

♦ «!• * 

A TRUE CAT STORY. 

I SEE The Chronicle is publishing a regular series of animal 
stories, so I conclude that one that is absolutely truthful 
in every detail will be acceptable. My story is about my 
personal experience with two cats that for several nights hand- 
running destroyed not only my sleep but the ease and comfort 
of my neighbors for two blocks around me. Those were, in 
appearance, only ordinary cats, but when it came to loud talking 
and the use of profane language, they had all other cats I have 
ever known backed clear off the boards. They seemed abso- 
lutely oblivious' to outside interference when they started a row, 
and old shoes, bootjacks, empty bottles and such things hurled 
at them seemed only to add to their sense of importance and 
they received them very much as a chorus girl receives a bou- 
quet when thrown on the stage to her; with only a moment's 
silence, a side-step and a smile. I know, because I bombarded 
those cats until I gave up in absolute despair. 

The absolute depravity and meanness of those two cats may 
be seen from the fact that neither belonged in my yard, though 
both made free use of it for their meetings and subsequent 
battles. Often I have heard the big black fellow crying out, 



52 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"Maria, Maria, come over in my yard!" thus showing that he 
laid claim to ownership of the place. But everybody has had 
the same experience with cats that I have outlined in the fore- 
going, but what everybody has not had is the extreme delight 
that I had in turning the table on the cats and giving them 
an experience of their own and furnishing them a new sensation. 

One bright, moonlit night I was awakened by the two cats 
who had gotten under my bedroom window and were using the 
most outrageous language to each other, in tones that would 
almost wake the dead. I searched the room for something to 
drop on them, for they were directly under the window and I 
could not have missed them. While I was making a fruitless 
search and wishing for a stick of dynamite, it occurred to me 
that my boy had purchased some large firecrackers the day 
before and had some left over. I went to his room and was 
fortunate enough to find one. It was not the great cannon 
cracker, but was the next size and the very thing I wanted. 
I lit a cigarette so as not to disturb the cats by lighting a match 
when I got ready to fire my cracker, pinched off the fuse, stuck 
it to the light and dropped it, I will say here that if any 
gunner in the army or navy could cut a fuse as accurately as 
I cut that one, his fortune would be made. The cats were in 
the midst of the most animated discussion and were just on the 
verge of blows. As I turned loose the firecracker I heard one 
say to the other: "You liar, you!" 

Then the firecracker reached a point about four inches from 
the ground, directly between them, and exploded. I can't 
describe what took place. Each cat thought the other had shot 
at him. There was no scramble nor anything like that. There 
was plenty of action, but it resembled lightning more than 
anything else. There was a high board fence about ten feet 
behind one of the cats. He simply turned a back handspring, 
barely touched the top of the fence and was half a block up 
the street before the flash from the firecracker had died out. 
The other fellow went in the opposite direction and disappeared 
behind the stable. I have seen in scientific journals pictures 
of flying bullets moving 2000 feet a second taken by instan- 
taneous photography. They looked like they were standing 
still. I am willing to make a small wager that if one of those 
scientists had had his photographic machine trained on those 
two cats that night all he would have gotten would have been 
two long streaks. 

While I was nearly choked with laughter and also lost in 
admiration over the record speed of the two cats, one of them 
came sneaking out from behind the stable. He had evidently 
thought the matter over and, finding he had not been hit by 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 53 

the pistol fired directly In his face by the other cat, he had 
gotten his "dander up" and, securing his razor, had come out 
looking for blood. That is the way I sized the situation up. 
He advanced very cautiously, without saying a word. I longed 
for another firecracker. I waited until he got nearly to the 
fence and, having nothing else to throw, I dropped my cigarette 
down just behind him. Again the effect was magical. He did 
not wait for the explosion of the bomb he thought the other 
cat had thrown at him from an ambuscade. He saw the sparks 
from the scattered burning tobacco and moved off like a rocket. 
There was one leap of ten feet to the top of the fence and he 
was gone. - 

Now, the remarkable thing about the whole circumstance was 
that neither of those cats opened its mouth or said a word 
after the first shock. All their energy was concentrated in 
their efforts to get away from there in the quickest time pos- 
sible. I don't know how they ever settled the matter or what 
explanations they made to each other, but I do know that from 
that time on nothing on earth could induce either of those cats 
to come in my yard either during the day or night. The mys- 
tery of the affair was too much for them. Had I thrown a 
firecracker down on only one of them he would have known it 
was I who did it and acted accordingly. But the introduction of 
doubt and suspicion into the problem, which made each one 
doubt and mistrust the other and suspect him of having attempted 
to assassinate him, made the case of mystery complete. They 
dodged me and they evidently dodged each other, for we heard 
no more of their outrages.. 

* * * 

SJOLANDER A HERO. 

IT has been my good fortune to have known several writers 
of note, among them one or two poets. Strange to say 
these latter have always been those whose friendship I 
valued. I say strange, because it is really so, for aside from 
their personality we have nothing in common. My taste is 
so depraved that I think that the fellow who raves in verse 
over a sunset, or a moon-lit night, is heading towards the near- 
est asylum, and if he is not he should be pointed that way. I 
confess that I enjoy the jingling verses, telling of breakfast 
foods and fine soaps, that one sees in the street cars, much 
more than I do the poems that others rave over. 

Now, among my poet friends is Sjolander, the sailor poet. 
He and I have been intimate friends for about 30 years, and it 
is a fact that I feel proud of. I have enjoyed his stories, skipped 
his Doetry and admired the man thoroughly and honestly. But 



54 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

for his extreme modesty he would be one of the most talked 
of men of today. He persists in keeping in the background, 
however, and there is no way of lugging him to the front. 

Now, in spite of our intimacy I never knew, until the other 
day, that Sjolander was a hero, a genuine one, too. It came 
out accidentally. We were talking about the sea, as we always 
do when we get together, and I mentioned a wreck that occurred 
just off Galveston in the early eighties. It was before the 
jetties were built and Galveston Island terminated at Fort 
Point. The inner bar was located just beyond where quaran- 
tine station is now located, and all beyond that point was the 
Gulf of Mexico. The outer bar was further out and was one of 
the worst on the gulf coast. During ordinary rough weather 
the bar was so rough that it was considered unsafe for a vessel 
to attempt to cross it. 

It was either in '83 or '84 that a terrible storm occurred off 
Galveston. The wind came from the southeast, and piled up 
the breakers "mountain high." During the night there was a 
fearful blow, and at daylight next morning it was discovered 
that a large ship had gone down and that her crew were cling- 
ing to the masts. She was located a mile or two off shore and 
was right in the midst of the breakers that would soon wash 
the men from their perilous position if it did not destroy the 
masts altogether. There was no life saving station, equipped 
with proper boats or anything of that kind. The men must be 
rescued though. The Morgan steamer, Josephine, was in port 
and got up steam to go out. She reached a point not far from 
the outer bar and met such huge breakers that she was forced 
to abandon the attempt and turned back to her place at the 
wharf. 

When it was found that the Josephine would not, or could 
not go to the rescue, one of the bar pilots leaped in a small 
sailboat and called for volunteers, saying that he would save 
those men or share their fate. Nine men sprang in the boat at 
once, among them my poet, Sjolander. That crew of ten braved 
the fearful bar, passed it, went to the stranded vessel and after 
hours of heartbreaking work succeeded in rescuing every one 
of the men clinging in the masts. The return trip, in the little 
overloaded vessel, was far more dangerous than the outward 
trip. The captain was a fine sailor, knew just what to do and 
had the men to do it, so they made the trip safely and got back 
to the wharf without the loss of a single man. 

Now, I knew about that wreck and of the heroic rescue, but 
I did not know that Sjolander was one of the heroes. The 
other day he referred to it casiually, mentioning it only in telling 
me of his introduction to Texas, he having arrived on an in- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 55 

ward bound vessel only a day or two before. When I asked 
him if he knew of the danger before he started he laughed at 
the question and said that he knew as well as an experienced 
sailor could know how slim the chances were for success. 
"But I would have gone anywhere that any other man would 
have gone at that time. I was not desperate or anything of 
that kind, but I was young and felt my oats. I felt at that time 
that L could do anything that any other man could do, and 
since I realized that something must be done quickly to save 
those men, I jumped in that boat with no thought of anything 
else than the fact that we were going to save them." 

Strange to say, the Galveston News gave only a brief account 
of the daring rescue and passed it off as if it had been only an 
ordinary, everyday occurrence. It was really a gallant thing; 
one that only those familiar with the dangers of the sea can 
appreciate at its full value. Had it been during these latter 
days when so many mock heroes are getting Carnegie medals 
every one of those ten heroes would have been decorated, and 
what is far more to the point they would have honored the 
medals by accepting them instead of the medals honoring them. 
Of all the ten, I believe only Sjolander is alive. I have always 
had a warm place in my heart for him, but after I heard his 
story he advanced several points in my estimation, if that be 
possible. The next time he comes to town I am going to get a 
full list of those gallant men and publish it so as to do their 
memory some tardy justice. 



EARLY SHOWS IN HOUSTON. 

WHETHER the war was responsible for it or not, the fact 
remains that for several years after its close society 
was in somewhat of a chaotic condition and "most 
any old thing went," just so it was not outside the law. Men 
of fine social standing engaged in business that they would 
shun today, not because there is anything radically wrong with 
these things, but because they are now in the hands of pro- 
fessional people and are not considered just the things for 
business men of commercial and social standing to engage in. 
To illustrate what I mean I will state that the first organized 
vaudeville show ever in Houston was organized and managed, 
not by a professional showman, but by Ed Bremond, the son lof 
the great railroad builder and capitalist. Just why Ed ever 
thought of such a thing no one knew, but he did think of it and 
he made a great success of it, too. That show was the "Acad- 
emy of Music" and was one of the most popular places in Hous- 



56 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

ton. It was located on the corner of Main and Prairie, upstairs, 
and was crowded every night. 

The Academy proved so great a financial success that Ed 
began to get the big head and spoke of himself as an "impres- 
sario." He had looked the word up in a dictionary and, liking 
its sound, had adopted it. There was a very large lady, inclined 
to what the French call embonpoint, who could sing "Molly 
Darling," "Don't You Love Me Darling?" and songs of that 
description in the most entrancing way. She had a complete 
name, of course, but all the young fellows knew her as "Miss 
Joe" and spoke of her in that way so often that her last name 
finally became lost in the shuffle. Ed was never guilty of fall- 
ing into the popular way of the boys, but always referred to 
Miss Joe as the "Charming Cantatrice." After his show got to 
making lots of money he grew more ambitious and spoke of 
Thuse Donneland, the fiddler, and Charley Finkelman, the piano 
player, as "virtuosos." His chorus girls, by the same reason- 
ing, became "artistes." 

Ed had one man in his company who afterward became fa- 
mous as a negro delineator. That was Milt Barlow, the creator 
of "Old Black Joe." The song was introduced in Houston by 
Barlow and he afterward became famous through that one song 
alone. 

But I did not start out to write anything about Ed and his 
Academy of Music. Mention of him is only incidental. What 
I wanted to say was that right after the war there were a lot 
of fellows in Houston who had the "initiative" and who had 
the promoter talent well developed. They would promote any- 
thing from a cock-fight to grand opera. About that time the 
father of a young gentleman well known in Houston died and 
left him a pot of ready paoney. The young man at once began 
looking around for something to promote. He tried a cock- 
fight, with only partially satisfactory results. Then he staged 
a crazy, stage-struck fellow who gave one of the most outrage- 
ously ridiculous performances ever witnessed. The absurdity of 
the whole thing advertised it extensively and a repetition was 
demanded by the public. I nor any one else who witnessed it will 
ever forget it. The opera house (Perkins Hall) was crowded 
from gallery to pit with a male audience at $1 per. From a 
financial point it was a grand success and before the close of 
the performance everybody there felt that he had his full dol- 
lar's worth. It was a one-man show. The curtain rose to slow 
music and the great actor entered. He was going to give a 
Shakespearean reading. He came on the stage in a tight-fitting 
union suit which fitted him as though he had been melted and 
poured into it. He wore high laced shoes and had an immense 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 57 

sword buckled around his waist. The sword was very long 
and kept constantly getting between his legs. The audience 
howled when he came on and he, taking it for applause, at- 
tempted to bow his thanks and came near falling down. The 
cheers continued, but had no effect on him, for he began his 
recitation at once. No one could hear a word he said, but that 
made no difference. He spoke for several minutes and then 
bowed himself off the stage. The audience was absolutely wild 
with delight by now. Then the great actor appeared again and 
began another piece. That continued for half an hour, when the 
promoter got on the stage and announced that "Senior De 
Pompeno" would next give an exhibition of living statuary. A 
barrel was placed in the center of the stage and the actor was 
led forth and mounted it. 

He raised his hand for silence and when he could make him- 
self heard announced that his first production would be "Ajax 
Defying the Lightning." With that he threw himself back, ele- 
vated his fists and shook them at the far gallery. The audience 
howled with delight. Then he gave "Faith, Hope and Charity." 
It was all ridiculously grand. After four or five renditions he 
announced that he would produce his masterpiece, "The Prayer." 
With that he threw back his head, raised his arms and began 
the most strenuous efforts to run while still on the barrel. The 
truth was that when he threw back his head he discovered 
seated on a beam just above him an old negro woman armed 
with a big tub of water which she was to empty on him at the 
close of the performance. His untimely discovery of her plot 
unnerved Fanny, for that was her name, and in her haste to 
empty the tub she lost her balance and she, tub and all came 
crashing down on the actor. It was heart breaking to have so 
many things to laugh at at once, and came near choking half 
the audience. Of course, when he tried to run he simply kicked 
the barrel backward without advancing himself the least bit, 
so that when Fanny landed she came down fairly on top of him 
and the barrel. Fortunately no one was injured. That was the 
greatest show that was ever pulled off in Houston and was 
talked about for weeks afterward. 

V V v 

HOW THE RAILROADS CAME. 

THE first spade ever stuck in the earth for the construc- 
tion of a railroad in Texas was at Harrisburg away back 
yonder, as early as 1840. That was for the construc- 
tion of the Harrisburg and Brazos Railroad, a line that was 
never built, at least not under that name. 

Some grading was done, some ties were placed, but no iron was 
ever laid and the enterprise was abandoned soon after it began. 



58 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

For 11 years the people of Harrisburg and Houston talked rail- 
road, but they seemed to have wasted all their energy in talk, 
for they did nothing else. 

However, in 1851 the line, which is now known as the Galves- 
ton, Harrisburg and San Antonio, was actually begun at Harris- 
burg, and construction was pushed so vigorously that in nine 
years 80 miles of road was actually constructed. In this day 
of rapid transportation, when all the material for railroad con- 
struction can be obtained almost at a moment's notice, it seems 
strange to hear that it took nine years to build a crudely con- 
structed line 80 miles. 

That was rather rapid work for the early days, however, for 
all the material, except for ties, had to be brought in sailing 
ships from Boston, New York or other ports on the Atlantic, 
unloaded at Galveston and then brought up the bayou in steam- 
boats. 

There were many difficulties to be overcome in the way of 
transportation and equally as great ones in obtaining money 
or credit to pay for construction. Just as the Harrisburg road 
got under good headway; the Houston and Texas Central got into 
the game. The first shovel of dirt for this road was thrown by 
that great railroad genius, Paul Bremond, in 1853. When he 
threw up that dirt he turned up more trouble for himself than 
generally falls to the lot of one man. 

Of course, he did not know this, but I am convinced that 
had he done so it would have made not the slightest change in 
his plans. His faith in himself and his confidence in his ability 
to accomplish whatever he started out to do, was something 
sublime. When it came to energy he had any engine on his 
road faded to a standstill. He was a wonderful man, and he 
did not hesitate, at times, to attempt the apparently impossible. 

When his first contractor got cold feet and threw up his job, 
Mr. Bremond promptly undertook to carry out the contract to 
build the road himself. There is where his troubles began. 

The company had money enough to build two miles of road 
and to buy an engine. Then the unlooked-for and unprovided- 
for element of credit bobbed up and scared all the other stock- 
holders, except Mr. Bremond, off the track. 

He stayed and went straight ahead just as if he had millions 
behind him. He had faith, the kind that is spelled with a big 
F, but the difficulty was to pay off several hundred clamoring 
Irishmen with some of his faith. He did not actually perform 
that miracle, but he came as near doing so as anybody could. 

He was a very honest and square man himself and the Irish- 
men, while they cursed and hunted for him everywhere, knew 
that they would be paid sometime. They made life a burden 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 59 

for him, however. Of course, he hid out as much as possible and 
was not given to parading up and down Main Street in those 
days, but while this modesty on his part saved him some 
trouble, it did not save him all the time and he had some re- 
markable experiences. 

On one occasion several hundred of the Irishmen went in a 
body to his residence. They yelled and hooted and made lots 
of noise, but finally contented themselves with tearing down 
his fence and carrying away the pieces. Finally they got tired 
of making demonstrations against him and, entering into the 
spirit of the game, they backed him up and went to work. 

Mr. Bremond knew that when the road reached Hempstead 
it would begin to earn money, so he turned all his great energy 
towards constructing it to that point as rapidly as possible. It 
took him five years of the hardest work any man ever had, but 
he accomplished it in 1858, and at once entered on a period 
of comparative ease. It was a wonderful performance and 
not one man in 10,000 could have done it. 

In two years more the road was completed to Milican and, the 
war coming on, it stuck there. In the meantime the Buffalo 
Bayou and Brazos Railroad had built into Houston. It used to 
come down San Jacinto Street and had an engine house and 
turntable at the foot of that street, right where the bridge 
is now. It had a long wooden depot at Polk Avenue and San 
Jacinto Street, where all the cars stopped, but the locomotive 
would come down to San Jacinto to turn round and go into the 
engine house. 

A lot of New Yorkers backed Abe Gentry up and he began 
the construction of the road to New Orleans. This road had 
money and credit too, and while it began construction later 
than the Houston and Texas Central and the Buffalo Bayou and 
Brazos roads, when the war broke out it had as much line con- 
structed as either of them, and had trains running to Orange. 

I don't suppose there ever were such railroads as those lead- 
ing out of Houston became by the second and third years of the 
war. Schedules and time-tables became farces. The trains 
came and went as they could, and spent almost as much time off 
the tracks as they did on them. I remember on one occasion 
pulling out of Columbia on the Buffalo Bayou and Brazos road, 
at the same time that a company of cavalry left there for 
Houston. 

During the whole day we were never out of sight of that 
company. Sometimes we would be ahead and sometimes they 
would lead. It was see-saw all day, for it took from early in 
the morning until dark to make the trip of 50 miles. Finally, 
just at dark, we reached Brays Bayou and lost sight of the com- 



60 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

pany there. They had entered the woods, ahead of us, however. 

Before the close of the war all the railroads except the Hous- 
ton and Texas Central and the Galveston, Houston and Hen- 
derson had gone out of commission and had ceased to run at 
all. In some way these two roads were kept in such condition 
that they could be used, but that was all. Using them was not 
a safe thing by any means. They crept along so slowly that 
while wrecks were so frequent as to attract no attention, it 
was a rare thing for any one to get killed or even hurt. 

If full justice were done the name of Mr. Bremond would be 
perpetuated by the Houston and Texas Central road. It is true 
there is one of the principal towns on the line named after him. 
It is true he received loyal support and assistance from W. R. 
Baker, M. M. Rice, William Van Alstyne, William J. Hutchins, 
Cornelius Ennis and others, but theirs was money help and soon 
gave out. The real credit for building the road belongs to Paul 
Bremond, for he did what others could or would not do, pulled 
off his coat and went in the trenches and, figuratively, on the 
firing line of railroad construction in Texas. 

I do not know what the reason for doing so was, but in those 
days the builders of locomotives always put immense smoke- 
stacks on them. The smokestacks were funnel-shape and sev- 
eral feet in circumference at the top. The locomotives burned 
wood and every few miles there were big stacks of cordwood 
piled alongside the track. 

There was no such thing as spark-arresters and every time 
the fireman put fresh wood in the box the passengers got the 
full benefit of the sparks, cinders and smoke. It beat traveling 
by stage, however, and as the people knew nothing of oil- 
burners, spark-arresters and Pullman cars, everybody was con- 
tent. 

The old-time fireman earned every dollar that was coming 
to him, for he had to keep busy all the time. It was not child's 
play to have to keep steam up with only wood for fuel. Then 
too, it took more steam to keep an engine going at that time, 
for the engineer was using his whistle 10 times as often as he 
uses it now. 

There were no fences along the right of way and as there 
were thousands of cattle on the prairies and woods where the 
road ran, the track was generally filled with them every few 
miles. As soon as the trains would get out of the city limits, 
the whistle would begin tooting and this was kept up almost 
without cessation. Of course, a great many cattle were killed 
and this led to bitter warfare between the cattlemen and the 
railroads. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 61 

Wrecks and attempted wrecks were frequent, for there were 
not wanting men, who, to get revenge on the railroad company 
by destroying its property, were willing to run the risk of 
destroying the lives of innocent passengers. The first wreck 
of this kind that ever occurred in Texas, was on the Houston 
and Texas Central, near where the water tank is, about 12 miles 
from Houston. Some scoundrel drove spikes between the ends 
of the rails and wrecked the train. No one was killed, but Mr. 
Bremond, who was on the train, received quite serious injuries 
and was laid up for repairs for several days. 

It is a pity some historian of that day did not keep a record 
of the ups and downs of the life of the early railroad builders. 
It would make interesting reading today. It would show, as 
the Frenchman said, "more downs as ups," for their progress 
was marked by more temporary failures than by successes. 



AT THE MASQUERADE BALL. 

I SUSPECT that the young folks have just as good times 
now as we used to have, but I doubt it. I cannot see 
how they can have, "our times" were too near perfect. 
The balls, dances and social gatherings now are too formal, 
and then, too, the people do not know each other as well as 
they formerly did. 

Houston was then not much more than a big town. Every- 
body knew everybody else, and it is a fact that society was 
something like a great family. There were several social clubs 
here. Two that devoted themselves to dancing the "German." 
These Clubs were the "O. C." and the "E. C." The "O. C." stood 
for Omnibus Club and the "E. C." for Economical Club. Each 
club had a "german" every two weeks, so that there was a 
"german" every week. There were similar organizations in 
Galveston, Austin and Waco, and as mutual invitations were 
exchanged there were always some popular members of out- 
side clubs at our dances or some of ours at theirs. The Omni- 
bus Club got its name from a rule of the club prohibiting the 
use of carriages and requiring the gentlemen to take the ladies 
to the dances in one of Baldwin's omnibuses, which made the 
rounds collecting the couples for the party and distributing 
them after the dance was over. 

Now, in addition to these two clubs was the famous Z Z Club, 
which gave delightful dances and balls, and the grand Purim 
ball given by another association. That Purim ball was the 
grand social event of the year, and was looked forward to with 
pleasurable anticipation by the young people of Houston for 



62 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

weeks before it occurred. It was a mask ball and was always 
an enjoyable event. 

Now, what made me think of those gay and festive times 
was meeting my old friend, Mr. Henry House last week. I had 
not seen him in years and would never have known him had he 
not told me who he was. When I last saw him he was a frail, 
bright-eyed, rather delicate young man, while today, as every- 
body knows, he is a rather portly, handsome and dignified 
business man. I remember his rosy cheeks and slight form of 
years ago, for on one occasion they led to my undoing. 

In the spring of 1872 or 1873 there was given one of the 
grandest Purim balls in the history of the association. People 
talked about it for weeks before it came off. A great many 
people from neighboring cities were invited, and when the 
night for the ball arrived many were here from Galveston, 
Austin, Waco, Dallas and from points on the San Antonio Road. 

Soon after I entered the ball room, I met Captain Conradi, 
who told me that he wanted me to take charge of a young lady 
who was visiting his family and had arrived that evening from 
New Eraunfels. She was not in costume or mask, but he did 
not think that would bar her from the dancing floor, and it did 
not. He introduced me to her and I danced with her. She 
was so graceful and danced so well that half the fellows in 
the hall wanted to be introduced at once. I saw her program 
filled for the entire evening in a few moments and soon she 
was easily the belle of the ball. 

I had reserved one or two dances for myself and I enjoyed 
every one of them. I took her to supper and before the evening 
was half over she had me head over heels in love with her. She 
was so pretty, so natural and altogether such a lovely girl that 
she captured the hearts of half the young men she met. I 
knew she had me, good and fast. 

After supper the order came to unmask and then we began to 
find out who we had been dancing with. Of course, my young 
lady did not have to unmask, for she had none on, therefore we 
were all surprised when Captain Conradi gave her his arm and 
escorted her to the stage. Then he introduced her to the au- 
dience by her right name, which was — Henry House, Jr. All 
of us young fellows collapsed, but so many had been taken in, 
and the joke was so far-reaching that we took comfort in the 
fact that everybody else was fooled as badly as we were. 

The next day in its account of the ball, the Age said: 

"But the very greatest imposition and cheat in the mas- 
querade — the truth of which assertion some 20 or 30 young 
beaux can attest to their great mortification — was Mr. Henry 
' House, Jr., whose lithe figure and undergrown proportions suited 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 63 

the impersonation of a young girl excellently. His flowing hair, 
flashing jewels, heavenly smiles and telling glances led many 
an impressionable young man to his undoing." 

During the continuance of these balls there were many fine 
characters taken and there were numerous splendid impersona- 
tions, but none that ever came within speaking distance of 
Henry House's "young lady from the country." 
* •!• ♦ 

A CORNER IN TURKEYS. 

ALL old citizens remember John Collins. He was one of 
Houston's merchant princes. It would be more fitting 
to describe him as a merchant king, for that was what 
he was. He was the king of Houston retail grocers, made more 
money, spent more money and gave away more money than 
any other five grocerymen in the city combined. 

He left a fair estate when he died, but had he been possessed 
of less heart and a little legitimate greed he might have died 
an unusually wealthy man. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas, days when the turkey becomes 
the national bird, and the Cuero turkey trot, made me think 
of Mr. Collins, for at one time he and some turkeys caused a lot 
of amusement among his intimate friends. He had a large two- 
story brick store at Travis Street and Preston Avenue, the 
corner now occupied by Sauter's place. It was the best corner 
in the city, being on Preston Avenue, then the greatest business 
thoroughfare in Texas, for all the business done with the interior 
came over Long Bridge at the foot of Preston, and also facing 
Market Square. 'Most any one located there would have done 
a good business, but Mr. Collins, being something out of the 
ordinary as a business man, did an immense one. 

He had lots of what is now called the initiative and was al- 
ways doing the unexpected. On one occasion he got up a corner 
on empty bottles, a trick none tried before nor since his day. 
That was outside his regular business, but he was too active 
to permit of his confining himself to his grocery trade. 

Since his day ambitious men have tried to corner the cotton 
and wheat markets. Some have done so and others have failed. 
Those who succeeded risked millions and paid for success with 
health and nerves. Before these ambitious ones appeared, 
Mr. Collins entered the field, created a corner, carried it through 
successfully and quit the game a double winner. 

In the late fifties Mr. Collins, a few weeks before Christmas, 
conceived the idea of cornering the turkey market. Next to 
his store was a vacant lot. He put up a rough board fence 
around it and put the turkeys in the enclosure. 



64 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

He bought all he could get hold of and a week before Christ- 
mas he had by actual count 400 turkeys. In and around Hous- 
ton there was not a turkey for sale that Mr. Collins did not 
own. The corner was complete. 

Then the unexpected happened. Mr. Collins calculated his 
profits, but he did not calculate the power of bad boys to pro- 
cure trouble. On the very night that he went to bed congratu- 
lating himself on the success of his scheme, some of those bad 
boys cut the straps on his turkey pen gate and the next morning 
the pen was empty. Every turkey there had departed for parts 
unknown. 

For a moment Mr. Collins was in despair, and then an inspira- 
tion seized him. He put out a board offering fifty cents for 
each of his turkeys returned to him. He had handbills scat- 
tered all over the city making the same offer. In an hour after 
the appearance of the handbills, boys with turkeys began to 
arrive. White boys, negro boys, Mexican boys and all kinds 
of boys arrived with turkeys and by night the pen was pretty 
full again. The next day the turkey arrivals continued. Mr. 
Collins was kept busy paying out fifty-cent pieces. Then the 
pen got overcrowded, something that was not the case before, 
so Mr, Collins made an investigation and found on examination 
of his book that he had paid out $300 and that he had 200 tur- 
keys more than he had before the boys cut the gate. 

It was all true, for the boys had scoured the city and county 
and brought in every turkey they could find. He had his own 
and everybody else's turkeys, and his corner was an absolute 
cinch. 

* * * 

HOW HAMP COOK WAS ROBBED. 

I HAVE told this story once before, but it is so good that I 
venture to tell it again, for it is several years ago and 
I am sure but few of the readers of The Chronicle have 
ever seen or heard of it. 

In 1884 we were* running a daily paper called the Houston 
Chronicle. We did not have any money, but we were all willing 
workers and what we lacked in cash we made up for in enthu- 
siasm and style. As a matter of fact we had more style than 
anything else. We had an editor-in-chief and a managing editor, 
an exchange editor, a telegraph editor and a city editor. For 
a short while we had a sporting editor also, but he got drunk 
one night, raised a rough house in Bell's "honketonk," got 
thrown out and making direct for the Chronicle office wrote up 
the place in the most lurid style, slipped it upstairs to the 
printers and left town, leaving me to face Bell the next day 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 65 

when he had blood in his eyes. Bell's dive deserved all it got, 
but I did not want the Chronicle's readers to see such language 
used in its columns as that drunken sporting editor put there. 

But to my story. 

Colonel Hamp Cook was city editor and, of course, he had a 
local staff. The staff consisted of one man, a bright chap who 
had one fatal defect, he could never get past a barroom if he 
chanced to see any one he knew on the inside. However, as he 
"toted" his liquor well, Hamp never had much trouble with 
him, and as he never gave him anything but routine work to 
do, he managed very well. Dud Bryan was the Houston repre- 
sentative of the Galveston News at that time and covered the 
local field most thoroughly. He kept Hamp and his "staff" on 
the jump all the time. 

One cold winter night, between 9 and 10 o'clock, a big fire 
broke out in the Fifth ward. Hamp gave his "staff" some hur- 
ried instructions and rushed to the fire. About an hour after 
he left, a friendly policeman came in and reported that an 
unknown dead man had been found in a deserted house away 
out in the Third Ward. The body had no head, it having been 
cut off and carried away. It was a fine story, but the best part 
of it was that the fire in the Fifth ward was still blazing and 
we knew Dud Bryan would be detained there too long to give 
him a chance to get the murder story for the News the next 
morning. It was the chance of a lifetime for a big scoop on 
the News. 

I sent the "staff" hot-footed after the murder story and sat 
down at his desk to write up the local news from Hamp's notes. 
Twelve o'clock struck. The fire had been put out, but Hamp 
had not returned, nor had the "staff," either. I knew it would 
take some time for Hamp to get back, for it was a long way 
to the Fifth ward at that time, the only bridge across the bayou 
being the old iron bridge at the foot of Milam Street. One 
o'clock, no Hamp, no staff, but the foreman, importuning me for 
"copy." I gave him a handful of reprint and quieted him mo- 
mentarily. Two o'clock! The foreman sending down every few 
minutes for "copy." I fed him whole batches of newspaper 
clippings to keep him quiet. Then, much to my relief, Hamp 
Cook showed up, but I had to take a good look at him before I 
recognized him. He was one living, moving mass of mud from 
the top of his head to the toes of his shoes. How he ever man- 
aged to get to the office with that load of mud on him was a 
mystery. He told his story briefly. He had been waylaid and 
robbed on the other side of the bayou. The highwayman had 
knocked him down and then had rolled him over and over in 



66 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

the mud, searching for money. Finally they found 35 cents, 
which they took and departed. 

We stood Hamp up by the stove, and the printers' devil, who 
had come down after "copy" and who had remained to hear 
Hamp's story, took the coal shovel and began to spade the mud 
off of him. Just then the door burst open and in come the 
foreman, with blood in his eyes. The "devil" thought he was 
after him and hastened to explain. 

"Oh, Mr. Cook was knocked down and robbed," he exclaimed. 

"Damn Mr. Cook," shouted the foreman. "I am looking for 

that who put a bag of paste in my chair. Look 

at me. I sat down on it." 

We took the foreman down in the pressroom to wash him off 
with a hose and we found the "staff" lying on a pile of news- 
papers, dead to the world. He had never gotten further than 
the Rice Hotel bar, where he met some of his friends, who. 
treated so liberally that evening his good "toting" qualities 
were taxed beyond their capacity and he had fallen. 

Cook was game, though. He sat down and wrote a fine ac- 
count of the fire and then wrote up the robbery. He spread 
himself on this and made an interesting and exciting story of 
It, too. But he made a fatal blunder. In closing the article, 
he stated that while the robbers got 35 cents, they overlooked a 
$5 bill he had in the watch pocket of his pants. That ruined 
him. The next evening Uncle Dan McGary of the Age repro- 
duced his story under the heading, "The Champion Liar of the 
Season," and went on to say that Hamp, being false in one 
thing, must be false in all, and that the whole story was a fake, 
because everybody knew that he never had as much as $5 at 
one time in his whole life. He accused Hamp of trying to put 
on style in trying to speak of a watch pocket and then of lying 
about having a $5 bill in it. The state papers copied Uncle 
Dan's version of the affair and within a week one could not 
tell from their comments whether Hamp robbed the robbers 
or they had robbed him. The whole thing got dreadfully mixed, 
all because Hamp made the mistake of putting that last line 
at the end of the story. No doubt he referred to that $5 bill 
for the purpose of making the robbers feel bad because they 
overlooked it, but it proved a boomerang and came back on 
his head. 

Of course the Chronicle did not scoop the News with the mur- 
der story, but we all had a strenuous time trying to do so. 

• 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 67 

NO SECOND FORTUNE WANTED. 

THE other night at the Press Club a crowd was collected 
about the reading table discussing every imaginable 
subject .under the sun. Finally one of the gentlemen 
asked me what I would do if I had a million dollars. 

I told him the truth — that I would get a shotgun and shoot 
every real estate man or promoter who came within 50 yards 
of me with any scheme for me to invest in, and that after I 
got them all scared off I would proceed to gratify the greatest 
wish of my life, namely, to spend the money just as I pleased. 
Since my tastes are not expensive ones, a million would last 
me the remainder of my life, which remainder I placed at not 
more than 30 years. 

The subject of gratifying one's wishes in the way of spending 
money brought to my mind a famous character who formerly 
lived here, but who has long ago been gathered to his fathers. 
His name was Fitzgerald and he was a full-blooded Irishman, 
and a typical one, too. He had a little oyster stand down on 
Travis Street and while his trade was not great nor very re- 
munerative, !he managed to make a fair living and was out- 
wardly content and happy. He loved the flowing bowl, but was 
forced to play the game on a small limit because of his narrow 
finances. 

He was content and happy, as I say, and doubtless would 
have passed through life in a very humdrum, prosy way had 
not an unforeseen incident bobbed up. His father, uncle or 
some one of his immediate relatives had preceded him and 
settled in Houston while the town was still in its infancy. 
Fitz, for such his intimates called him, knew nothing of this 
relative beyond the fact that there had been such a person, 
therefore he was greatly surprised one day when a lawyer came 
to his oyster place and told him that he was a wealthy man. 

"If you are the heir of old Blank Fitzgerald," the lawyer told 
him, "you own the whole of the Third Ward of this city, and I 
can get it for you if you will sign these papers." 

Fitz, having everything to gain and nothing to lose, promptly 
signed the papers and the next day or two saw the beginning 
of a real estate volcano. There were suits and counter suits and, 
as the new Bible says, there was underworld to pay. The old 
Fitzgerald claim appeared to be all right and there was scarcely 
a lot holder in the Third Ward who felt safe. 

In a week or two offers to compromise began to pour in 
from these frightened people, and Fitz's lawyer literally did a 
land office business. In those days real estate was not selling 
for $4500 the front foot. That amount of money would have 



68 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

bought several blocks in most any part of the Third or any- 
other ward of the city, hence compromises were not difficult 
to make. 

Fifty dollars here, a hundred there and sums of that kind 
usually satisfied all claims and resulted in clear titles. The 
lawyer waited until he rounded up the whole lot and then he 
went to Fitz with his part of the money. It was only a few 
thousand dollars, but even that was more money than Fitz 
thought there was in the whole world. He promptly kicked his 
oyster counter over, threw his knives out in the street, tore 
the door of his shanty off its hinges, took his paint brush and 
went out in the town to paint it red. The chance that he had 
dreamed of all his life had come and he took advantage of it. 

His field of operations was limited, so that while he spent 
his money freely and bought lots of whiskey for himself and 
friends, his roll lasted about three months, though, and when 
he finally became a physical and financial wreck he had at least 
the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that no one who had pre- 
ceded him had ever pulled off a similar stunt. 

After laying up for repairs for a week or two Fitz went back 
to his old shack, repaired the counter, fixed the door, got new 
knives and settled down to his old business just as if nothing 
had occurred to interfere with the placid flow of his life. 

About six months after he had settled down the same lawyer 
bustled in again. "Fitz," said he, "I have found that you own 
all of the Second V7ard and I'm going to get that for you, too." 

"You're not," shouted Fitz. "I'll have nothing to do with it. 
I'm through with the whole thing. Why, man, I would not get 
on another drunk like that one I had for the whole city of 
Houston. Git out of me place." 

The lawyer had actually discovered that Fitz had a good claim 
to lots of property in the Second Ward, but he could not get 
Fitz to assert his claim, "Send 'em to me," he said, "and I'll 
give every one of them a clean title and thank them for takin' 
it." He did it, too, and gave every man whose title was affected 
a quit claim deed. 

He knew of no way to enjoy a fortune except to spend the 
money for liquor and he had had his fill of that. The lawyer 
was disgusted, of course, but could do nothing, so accepted the 
inevitable. Fitz continued his oyster business to the end and got 
more enjoyment out of it than he did out of the few thousand 
dollars that he spent on his great spree. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 69 

HOUSTON'S LAST AFFAIR OF HONOR. 

I SAW the other day where a Frenchman had offered to give 
any one 10,000 francs who would furnish him with a new 
sensation. I don't know what that Frenchman's record in 
the sensation line is, but if I could fix up the stage, as it was 
once fixed up for me, I could get his money easily. 

I know of only one sensation I have not experienced — that 
of having killed a man. Now as I practiced medicine for about 
five years, I can see some of my friends raise their eyebrows 
over that statement, but if I have ever killed any, I did so 
scientifically and did not know it, hence my conscience does not 
hurt me. I have experienced the sensation of being nearly 
killed myself two or three times, and on one memorable occa- 
sion, I came face to face with the ghost of a dead man I had 
cut up half an hour before, and I had the time of my life in 
the sensation line when I did so. That was what I referred to 
when I spoke of fixing up the stage for that Frenchman a mo- 
ment ago. I am not going to tell any ghost story now, and I 
refer to it merely to let the reader understand that I am a bit 
of an expert when it comes to sensations. 

To be guilty of taking human life must be the most terrible 
thing on earth. No matter what the circumstances are, there 
must be keen regret, if not agonizing remorse at all times. I 
once knew a man who had killed three men. He was actually 
afraid to go in the dark, not afraid of the living revenging 
themselves on him, but afraid of the dead. It was said that he 
killed the second man to get rid of the first, and the third to 
get rid of the second. He got tired of the ghosts and wanted 
a change of companions. Now all this is simply a prelude of 
the story of a young man who resides in Houston, who is pre- 
pared to go in court and swear to the agony a sensitive person 
feels after he has "got his man." 

Some years ago there were two young gentlemen here who 
were great friends but who were constantly falling out with 
each other — kind of lovers' quarrels, as it were. One (perhaps 
both) is here now, so I shall not call names, though the truth 
of the story will be vouched for by hundreds when this recalls 
it to their memories. One day these two youths had a most 
bitter and serious quarrel, and their companions saw a good 
chance to have some fun. Instead of trying to bring the two 
together, they widened the breach and magnified its importance 
until finally they induced one of the boys to challenge the other. 

They took the challenged party into their confidence and 
told him that no balls would be put in the pistols and only 
blank cartridges would be used. Under these safe circumstances. 



70 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

he readily accepted the challenge and chose pistols at 16 paces. 
He was told that he must fall dead at the first fire, and stay- 
dead until they could get his slayer out of the way. The plan 
worked beautifully, for the other fellow was game and even 
eager to fight, so they had no trouble with him. Early the next 
day the principals and their seconds appeared promptly on the 
field of honor, away out somewhere beyond the city limits in 
the Third Ward. The men were placed, the word given and 
at "three" both fired. The challenged man threw his hands 
over his heart, wavered a little and then dropped dead, all in 
proper form. When he saw his friend fall, the survivor was 
panic stricken, and, for the first time realized that his whole 
life was to be one of remorse and regret. He wanted to rush 
forward and throw himself on the body of his dead friend and 
plead for forgiveness, but was restrained by his seconds, who 
pointed out to him the necessity for immediate flight. He took 
one wistful look at the place where his friend's body was lying 
on the grass and then, panic stricken, he started for Mexico on 
foot, like a race horse. 

After he was well out of sight the dead man got up and the 
whole party returned to town to enjoy the joke. There was 
only one thing they overlooked in their calculation, that was 
the agony and remorse of their victim. He wandered aimlessly 
all the morning and finally concluded that there was only one 
thing to do to drown his sorrow — return to the city, give him- 
self up, and be hung for the murder. He felt easier after mak- 
ing up his mind to return and be hanged, so he started for 
town, and when he got there he went to the court house to look 
for the sheriff. As he turned the corner of Preston Avenue, he 
saw what he supposed was the ghost of his murdered friend 
standing in the court house door. The ghost saw him at the 
same time and attempted to hide behind the door. The young 
man rushed eagerly toward the ghost, but the ghost, concluding 
that he had found out the joke that had been played on him and 
was coming to take revenge on him for the part he had played 
in it, concluded not to wait for him and fled. Then commenced 
one of the most wonderful flights and pursuits that has ever 
been witnessed on court house square, or anywhere else, so 
far as that goes. The ghost rushed through the court house 
with the victim close behind him. The ghost gained some slight 
advantage by diving into a cigar store, knocking down two or 
three people who were in there, wrecking the stand and thus 
blocking the way long enough to allow him to reach the back 
yard, mount some dry goods boxes and crawl over a fence into 
the next yard. The advantage was only slight, however, for 
the victim was a good second and reached the next yard, by 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 71 

the same route, almost as quickly as the ghost. Then, in a per- 
fect agony of fear, the ghost made for the sidewalk again, 
choosing for his route the first open door he saw, which chanced 
to belong to a little tailor shop. In they went, like a couple 
of wild horses, knocking down shelves, overturning tables and 
wrecking the place completely. By this time the ghost was con- 
vinced that the victim had secured a bowie knife and was only 
waiting to get near enough to him to rip him into bits. The 
thought put new life and energy into his legs, and reaching the 
sidewalk he lit out in true Marathon style. He had seen the 
folly of trying to dodge into stores, so kept to the open street. 
The victim was as anxious to capture him as he was to escape, 
and took after him, also with renewed energy. Not one word 
had been spoken up to this time. The chase, barring the 
crashes in the cigar store and tailor shop, had been conducted 
amidst profound silence. After going four blocks in something 
like a fraction of a second, the victim managed to get near 
enough to the ghost, and to find breath enough to say, "Hold 
on, you fool. I don't want to fight you; I want to kiss you for 
being alive." 

That was all. He was so glad that he was not a murderer 
that he wanted to kiss his supposed victim. It was a terrible 
load that was lifted from his mind and heart and he was crazy 
with joy. He felt such relief that he forgave everybody who 
had anjrthing to do with the duel and the subject was allowed 
to die out by the principals. The joke was so evenly divided 
between these two that neither had any advantage. 

That, I believe, is the last "affair of honor" that has occurred 
in Houston. 

* * ♦ 

MRS. BURKHART AND THE BOYS, 

NOT so long ago one of my legal friends asked me to go 
with him to locate a fence that was built long ago 
along Preston Avenue to the bayou, near the bridge. The 
question to be determined was whether there had been a fence 
there or not and if there had been, where it was located. 

That visit brought back more amusing memories than any 
other locality could have possibly done. The property under 
dispute was formerly owned by Mrs. Burkhart. She owned the 
whole block on the bayou between Prairie and Preston, fronting 
Smith Street. She had no more idea of riparian rights than she 
had of the constitution and by-laws of the Fiji Islands, and 
when she built her fences she covered all the land and as much 
of the bayou as she could. Having erected her stronghold, she 
stood ever ready to defend it against intruders. Dickens' old 
lady who carried on relentless war against donkeys was not 



72 TRVE STORIES OF OLD 

a drop in the bucket as a warrior compared to Mrs. Burkhart 
conducting her private war against the boys. There were some 
nice fishing holes inside the enclosure and there were lots of 
nice mustang and winter grapes along the banks of the bayou. 
These tempted the boys, but by the time they were getting their 
first fish out of the water or reaching for the grapes Mrs. Burk- 
hart would loom up armed with bricks and bones and open fire 
on the intruder or intruders. I don't think she ever caught a 
boy so I can't say what she would have done had she taken a 
prisoner. The boys never gave her a chance to show her hand 
in that way, for on the arrival of the first piece of brick or 
bone a hasty retreat was beaten. 

About the nearest she ever came to capturing a prisoner was 
in the case of Dick Fuller. It was "popgun time" and china- 
berries were in great demand. Near the Prairie side of the 
block there was a large chinaberry tree that extended over into 
the street. One day Dick got up in this tree, gathered a num- 
ber of bunches of berries and began picking them into his hat. 
He wanted to get a hatful so as to have a big supply. He be- 
came so absorbed in his work that he forgot all about Mrs. 
Burkhart and she crept up under him without his knowing any- 
thing about her warlike intentions. Dick was sitting on a limb 
with his feet resting on another and was very comfortable and 
well content. While he was sitting there he began to feel the 
waist-band of his trousers tighten mysteriously and on attempt- 
ing to move found he oould not do so. He looked down and was 
horrified to see, directly under him, Mrs. Burkhart, who had 
made him a prisoner in a novel way. She had taken a long 
pole she used to prop up her clothes line with. This had two 
nails driven in the end of it. She had reached up and succeeded 
in entangling those nails in the seat of Dick's trousers. When 
she saw that Dick had discovered her she threw aside all dis- 
guise and went at the entangling work in real earnest. Dick 
tugged and squirmed and Mrs. Burkhart twisted and twisted. 
It was terribly humiliating to be captured by a woman and cap- 
tured by the seat of his pants, too, but Dick's mind was not 
on the disgrace, humiliation or anything of that kind, but was 
on how to make his escape. Dick pulled and pulled and Mrs. B. 
twisted and twisted, trying to secure an indestructible hold, so 
between the two they managed to overdo the thing and, the seat 
of the pants being human (if I can say such a thing about the 
seat of pants), gave way and Dick was free. 

When she saw that her tail-hold had broken she grew des- 
perate and made strenuous efforts to punch him out of the tree 
with the pole. He saw only one avenue of escape. He rushed 
out as far as could on the limb and made a dive into the street. 
He did not ask her for the part of his wardrobe she flaunted at 
the end of the pole in his face, but turned tail and fled. He 
managed to save his hat, but lost all his berries, of course. 

Now, looking back after all these years, I am inclined to 
believe that Mrs. Burkhart actually enjoyed having the boys in- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 73 

trude on her premises because of the fun it afforded her in 
running them off. She looked like a fiend when she had Dick 
Fuller hooked up that time, but I am willing to bet she enjoyed 
a good laugh all to herself when she began untangling the seat 
of his pants from the nails at the end of her pole. She made 
it a point never to recognize a boy on the street or to take the 
slightest notice that he was on the face of the earth; but let 
him crawl over her fence and all that was changed and he found 
himself the center of the most ardent and heartfelt attention. 
There was no ignoring him then. 

•!• V V 

FRANK LA MOTT'S STORY. 

YES," said Frank La Mott, "I have known some queer 
characters in my day, but the queerest I ever ran across 
was an old, one-eyed chap that taught school for several 
years out west of San Antonio. If I did not know Canon Doyle 
never heard of the man I would be tempted to believe that he 
had him in mind when he created Sir Niegel. This old fellow 
was on the warpath all the time and spent his leisure moments 
reading about chivalry, knights errant and all that sort of fool- 
ishness. 

"The old chap had only one eye, and the way he lost the 
missing one was in keeping with everything he did. He be- 
longed to a cavalry regiment that served on the other side of 
the river during the war, and they say he made one of the 
best soldiers in his command. I can't swear that the story is 
true in every detail, but I have heard it so often that I am 
inclined to believe every word of it. Once his regiment was 
camped on one side of a big bend in a river and a Yankee regi- 
ment was camped on the other. As a matter of fact, the two 
regiments were on the same side of the river, but there was a 
big bend in the river, coming down to a narrow neck that made 
them appear to be on opposite sides. 

"One day a crazy Yank came down to the bank of the river 
and rode his horse up and down, waving his hat and making 
signs and signals. No one could make out what he was up to 
until finally our old chap solved the mystery. 

" 'That chap is making a defi,' he said. 'He wants to run a 
tilt for the advancement of his lady love. Don't you see he 
holds up- one hand and then points up the river? He wants a 
private war, and I'm going to give it to him. I ain't got no 
lady, but I will stop his advancing his.' So saying he saddled 
up his horse, buckled on his six-shooter and motioning to the 
Yank to come ahead, he rode off to the big bend in the river. 

"The Yank must have been out for what the old man said, 
for as soon as he saw him start he put spurs to his horse and 
aimed for the bend, too. They commenced shooting as soon 
as they got in range and about the second shot the Yank's 
bullet knocked the old chap's eye out. That made him so mad 
that he charged down on the Yank, yelling like an Indian and 



74 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

shooting like a fiend. Tliat charge was too much for the Yank. 
He forgot all about the advancement of his lady love and thought 
only of the retirement of himself. He turned tail and broke 
for his camp with the old chap right behind him, coming like 
a prairie fire. In spite of the danger, the boys could not keep 
from yelling, and the Yanks were doing the same. The old fel- 
low chased that 'knight' right into his camp and tried to hit 
him with his empty six-shooter after he caught him. 

"The Yanks were dead-game sports. They had seen that it 
was a fair fight, and they refused to take advantage of the 
situation. They had their doctor fix the old chap's eye and 
then they turned him loose and let him go back to his own 
regiment. Some of the boys used to say they sent him back 
with a guard of honor, but I always omit that part when I tell 
the story. 

"Now if you knew the old fellow you would be prepared to be- 
lieve this story, or any other that would bring out his game- 
ness. He was like one of those blue-legged crabs in a tub that 
throws up both arms, ready for battle every time anybody looks 
at him. The old man was always looking for trouble, with the 
result that, after his reputation was established, he was always 
treated with the most distinguished consideration and courtesy. 

"Now, from what I have told you about the old man you 
would think that nothing on earth could rattle him, and that 
he had nerves made out of galvanized ifon. He had nothing 
of the kind, but was one of the most nervous men you ever 
saw. He would stand up and fight the devil himself with knife 
or pistol, and never a whimper, but if any one sprang a surprise 
on him he would go all to pieces. I suspect he was ticklish. 
I remember I gave him a great surprise and he gave me one 
in return that I remembered for a long time. He was walking 
down Houston Street, in San Antonio, and I walked up behind 
him and slapped him on the shoulder. He squatted down on 
the ground and squealed like a wildcat and then rose with a 
bowie knife in his hand and chased me for two blocks. He was 
simply crazy from nervousness and did not know what he was 
doing. I heard afterward that he did the same thing in the 
legislative hall at Austin and came near killing one of his friends 
who came up behind him and nudged him. You can bet I never 
tried to flank nor come up in his rear after that. I would dodge 
him until he could see me advancing from in front, and even 
then I watched out for signs of war from him. The old fellow 
always carried two derringers and a bowie knife and it is a 
wonder he did not kill off half his friends. 

"He was a great believer in dueling, but I don't think he ever 
fought a duel unless that tournament with the Yankee might 
be called one. He was always in too great a hurry to wait for 
the seconds to arrange the affair. Poor old fellow. He has been 
dead now many years, but the next time you are in San Antonio 
and come across any old-tim»rs you ask them about 'Professor 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 75 

Pete White,' and listen to the tales they will tell you. You cau 
get enough to make a book if you want to." 

* 4» * 

NOT DOWN ON THE PROGRAMME. 

WHATEVER may be said of Houston's quiet Christmas, 
the same does not apply to New Year's Eve, the 
death of the old year. Houston fairly stood up on its 
hind legs and welcomed the new year in the most royal man- 
ner. There was noise enough to make up for the deficit for 
Christmas and then have some left over. I did not see any 
of it, for I did not venture away from the Press Club, where a 
number of us welcomed the new year in in an orderly manner. 

That noise, firecrackers, pistol shooting and everything else, 
showed me that there was some love of fun left in the old place 
yet and made me like it all the more. It. was much after the 
way we used to celebrate and for the first time I began to feel 
as if I were at home. One terrible explosion had a good effect 
on me, for it carried me back instantly to so many years ago 
that I am not going to say how many. 

There is a good story involved in that explosion, too, and I 
am going to tell it, although it is on Sinclair, and he may not 
like to have it told. The reader must remember that we were 
all much younger and that W. R. Sinclair was very far from 
being the staid and dignified editor that he is today. 

The newspaper boys and the police stood in with each other 
much closer then than they do today. The "force" was not 
large, but it was lively. Alex Erichson was chief and Bill Glass 
was deputy chief. Alex was serious and took but little stock 
in fun and jokes, but Bill Glass made up for all the chief's de- 
fects in that way. 

There was a good sprinkling of railroad men who ran with 
the gang also, and it was the neglect of one of these that gave 
rise to the following incident, which is absolutely true: 

A conductor who "ran with the gang" got married during 
Christmas week and on New Year's Eve gave a dance at his 
residence down in Frostown, as that part of the city where the 
gas works was located was called. His house was a small one 
and presumably for that reason he failed to invite any of the 
"boys" to the dance. 

Bill Glass and Sinclair, or "Sin." as he was called, understood 
well enough that no slight had been intended, but they pretended 
to be greatly outraged and worked on the others until they were 
ready to do anything that Glass and Sinclair suggested. These 
two thought of every possible way of getting even with the 
conductor and at last hit upon the following novel plan, which 
would not only accomplish their purpose, but at the same time 
let the whole town know that they were on their job. 

Near midnight they got the boys together near the court 
house and told them their plans. There were several pieces of 
field artillery, six-pounders, that had been accumulated by the 



76 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Federal army of occupation and left on court house square, to 
be shipped North. These guns were all dismounted and were 
lying on the ground. 

The two conspirators selected one of the cleanest, found that 
the vent was open and that it was in good firing condition. Bill 
Glass had a quantity of gunpowder and they stood the gun on 
end while he poured about a hatful of it into the gun and then 
rammed a newspaper down on it with a long stick. It was a 
crude loading, but it was enough to make a noise. Having loaded 
the cannon, they got some heavy sticks, or rather poles, and 
half a dozen fellows vied with each other for the honor of acting 
as pallbearers. The weather was outrageous and the mud was 
knee-deep everywhere, but that made no difference. 

They marched down to the conductor's residence, opened his 
front gate and proceeded to plant their gun on the sidewalk. 
They got the proper elevation by propping up the muzzle of the 
gun with pickets, bricks and anything they could find, and when 
they got through the piece was well placed, aiming exactly at 
the doorknob of the front door. 

It was a very cold night and all the doors were closed tight. 
The gang could hear the music and the revelry going on inside 
and chuckled to think what a surprise they were going to give 
the revellers. Having planted their gun properly, they inserted 
a friction primer, attached a long rope to it, hitched the rope 
to the front doorknob, so that simply opening the door would 
fire the cannon, and then they hid out to await developments. 

They waited and waited, but no one came to the door. Fin- 
ally Sinclair determined to wait no longer, so he slipped up to 
the door, intending to knock on it and get out of the way before 
anyone answered the knock. His idea was all right, but it mis- 
carried. Just as he reached the door and extended his hand to 
knock some one jerked the door open. 

The surprise was a success in more ways than the boys had 
calculated. The cannon went off with a roar that woke up all 
the old people in Houston who had gone to sleep, and when it 
did so it shot Sinclair clean into the hall and half way through 
the back door. It came near wrecking the house itself. Every 
pane of glass and every dish in the house was smashed to 
pieces. The worst part was that Sinclair had been shot right 
into the enemy's hands and had no earthly excuse for being there. 

The conductor was so frightened that he did not know what 
to do. In the confusion Sinclair managed to escape. When 
he got outside he found that every one of his conspirators had 
deserted him. They all thought that Sinclair and everybody in 
the house had been blown to pieces, so they took to their heels. 
Sinclair trudged through the mud to town. 

His hair was singed off and his clothes torn into bits. In fact, 
he was as much of a wreck as the house was. About 2 o'clock 
in the morning the conductor showed up at police headquarters 
and reported the outrage to Deputy Chief Bill Glass, who listened 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 77 

patiently and made the most strenuous promises that he would 
investigate the thing and punish the guilty persons. 

By next morning Sinclair, who had thought over the thing, 
wrote an indignant letter to the conductor, charging him with 
having attempted to take his life. He said that he had called 
to pass the usual congratulations, having found the house 
lighted and everybody up, and that just as he knocked on the 
door the conductor had exploded a concealed mine on him and 
had come near killing him. 

"Sin" took the offensive from the start and won out. It was 
not so difficult to do, either, for it was against reason to believe 
that a man would fix up such a thing and then voluntarily get 
right in front of it himself. 

Bill Glass investigated, got clews and abandoned them and 
finally gave up and informed the conductor that he was unable 
to solve the mystery. 

That old cannon lay out on the sidewalk in front of the con- 
ductor's house for a long time and was finally taken away by the 
Federal authorities and shipped North. The conductor had 
been in the Federal army and, as the gun was a Confederate 
cannon, no doubt that New Year's night was not the first time 
it had been fired at him. 

Just imagine the deputy chief under Chief Noble engaging in 
anything like that today. The thing is scarcely thinkable. 
4« * * 

ABOUT ALLIGATORS. 

ONCE, when I was living in New Orleans, a young fellow 
asked me if I had ever been on a big cattle ranch and 
when I told him I had he offered to bet me that I could 
not tell how a cow, that was lying down, got up. I ^d seen 
thousands of them get up, but when I got to thinking about it, 
I could not tell him to save my life. Then he asked me how 
a horse got up, and I could not tell that, either. Since that 
day I have always known that a cow gets on her hind feet first 
and a horse gets on his front feet first. That shows how little 
we observe things that occur constantly under our very noses. 
Now, while most of the Chronicle readers may be better in- 
formed on cows and horses than I was, I am willing to take a 
small amount that not half a dozen of them can tell how an 
alligator opens his mouth. All the rest of the thousands will 
say that he opens it by raising his upper jaw; that the lower 
jaw lies fiat on the ground and that the upper one rises. Last 
week, I admit, I would have said the same thing, but I know 
better now, for I have been reading up on alligators, and the 
natural history sharp whose book I read says that the alliga- 
tor's jaws open far back, even behind the ears, where they are 
hinged or articulated into each other. The effect is that when 
the alligator opens his mouth his neck becomes somewhat bent 
upward, giving him the appearance of having moved the upper 
instead of the lower jaw. That was a new one on me, and I 



78 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

made up my mind to spring it on the public the first chance I 
got. 

Now, speaking of alligators reminds me that there used to be 
quantities of them in Buffalo Bayou. I don't know how many Mr, 
Erickson, the father of Otto, killed in his day, but I know of 
several, and one of the largest I ever saw was killed by him 
about where the Louisiana bridge now stands. It was so large 
that it attracted public attention, just as that whale did a year 
or two ago. He cut the head off, had it prepared and shipped it 
to a museum in Germany. I remember seeing the head. It was 
in a large wash-tub and stuck up two or three feet above the top 
of the tub. The old man was a dead-shot with a rifle, and it 
took a dead-shot to kill an alligator with the guns of that day, 
for the only way to kill them was by shooting them in the eye. 
He could do that and he rarely failed to get them on the first 
shot. 

I heard stories of men being eaten by alligators when I was a 
boy, and I believe there are one or two well authenticated cases 
reported. We boys paid no attention to the stories, however, 
and went in swimming just as though there were no such thing 
in the world as an alligator. The very evening Mr. Erichson 
killed that big one the bayou was full of boys not a hundred feet 
from where he had killed it. But boys are hardly responsible 
for their fool capers. 

On one occasion I witnessed a funny scene in which a 10-foot 
alligator was one of the principal actors. I was living out in the 
country with Louis Hillendahl. There was, and is yet, I believe, 
a large German settlement out there. One of the great summer 
sports was getting up a big fish fry. We had a great big seine 
and caught our fish that way. A week or two ahead a lot of the 
boys would select a nice stretch in Buffalo Bayou, and would 
strip off, get in and remove every snag. That was to give the 
seine fair play. The work was done some time before the sein- 
ing so as to allow the frightened fish to return to their accus- 
tomed haunts. When everything was ready, on some bright 
Sunday morning, the whole neighborhood would turn out and 
meet at the bayou. There were men, women and children and 
everybody. The ladies would make fires and prepare for a big 
dinner while half a dozen young fellows would retire to the 
woods and don old clothes. These were the seiners. When 
everything was ready a whoop would announce that the seining 
was about to begin, and a rush would be made for the bank 
of the bayou, to watch the fun. 

Usually a space of a hundred yards or more would be cleared 
of snags, so as to catch as many fish as possible. 

One Sunday morning the seining was going on finely. Two or 
three hauls had been made, and quite a number of fish had been 
caught. Finally, just at a bend in the bayou, the seine became 
entangled in a deep hole. There was a big discussion, and the 
boys who had done the cleaning were roundly abused for having 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 79 

"■■■■■■' ■ ■ ■■■ — - ■ ■ ■ I 11 ■ ^ 

left such a snag there. Effort was made to clear the seine by 
pulling it sideways, backwards and every other way, but it was 
no use, it was evidently badly entangled. One or two of the boys 
volunteered to dive down and untangle it. It was rather deep, 
so none of them stayed down very long. Finally one fellow, 
whose sweetheart was watching him from the bank, took a long 
breath and went down with the evident intention of getting the 
seine free, even if he had to haul the log out that was holding it. 
He was down less time than any of the others, for he came up 
like a rocket, rose away up out of the water and made for the 
shore, shouting at the top of his voice the German equivalent 
for alligator. He hit the bank, scrambled out, and when he got 
breath enough to talk we learned that he had gone down and 
actually seized the alligator round the neck before he realized 
what it was. When he did find out what he was hugging he 
turned loose in a hurry and came out like a tornado. 

Then you never heard so much excited talk. Every man there 
knew so well what should be done to capture that alligator that 
no one would listen to what anybody else said. Talk about the 
French being excitable, why a crowd of Germans with an alligator 
tangled up in their only seine 10 or 15 feet under the water can 
give the Frenchmen cards and spades and then beat them out. 
Finally it was determined that the only way to get the alligator 
out was to pull him out, and the whole crowd set to work doing 
so. It was hard work, for at first the alligator refused to budge. 
At last they got him started and you could hear those fellows 
shout for a mile or two. At last they got him safely out on the 
bank, and he was fighting mad. He had not torn the seine while 
he was in the water, but he proceeded to rip it up right and left 
now that he was on land. Everybody who had an ax or hatchet 
took a dig at him, and that part of the seine which he had not 
destroyed was finished by the axmen. It was a wild, howling 
crowd that surrounded that alligator, and if he had been the least 
sensitive he would have died of fright long before they succeeded 
in killing him. No pack of coon dogs ever made such a racket 
about a fighting coon as those fellows made around that alli- 
gator. After it was all over they realized what foolish capers 
they had cut and laughed heartily at each other's antics. It 
was the best and most surprising seining party I ever attended. 

There are no alligators in Buffalo Bayou today, at least not 
in the city limits, but I suspect that if a careful search were 
made one or two might be found up near the head of the bayou. 
The little lakes and ponds over in San Jacinto bottom were full 
of them a few years ago, and on one occasion I killed four or 
five without hardly getting out of my tracks. After doing such 
excellent shooting, I shot at a water moccasin five times at a 
distance of ten feet and missed him every time. The only way 
I can account for it is that the snake got on my nerves, for I 
dread even the sight of one. 



80 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

COLONEL CY. S. OBERLY. 

IN the early '80's there were a lot of first-class newspaper 
men in Houston. The Galveston News had a very large 
circulation here and generally kept two or three men iu 
their Houston branch office. Then there were two or three 
pretty good local papers here and all these had good men on 
them. There were good reporters, bad reporters and a good 
sprinkling of amateur reporters. Among all the distinguished 
ones there was one who stood out prominently as both a good 
newspaper man, fine writer and gentleman, Colonel Cy. S. Ober- 
ly. All those who were so fortunate as to know the colonel will 
agree with me in saying that he was a man and gentleman from 
the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. 

The colonel was more of an author than a newspaper man. 
He was a good writer, but not a good news-gatherer, but he 
never got left in the shuffle, for the other boys always looked 
out for his interest. He wrote books, poems and newspaper 
verses and paid more attention to the trimmings than to the 
serious things of life. He had been a Texas ranger and had 
served on the Rio Grande for about three years, so he had a 
rich fund of personal experience to draw on for his books, which 
were about Mexican outlaws and wild Indians. They used to tell 
an amusing story on the colonel, but always when they were 
certain he was absent. He had just issued one of his thrilling 
frontier stories and all his friends in Memphis, where he was 
living, were reading and praising it. There was an old printer 
working on the morning paper who was considered the best 
critic in the country, for no other reason in the world than that 
he said he was himself. He criticised everything from the Bible 
down. All newspaper men will recognize him, for there was 
never a newspaper office that did not have among its printers 
one of this type. They are as necessary to a composing room 
as the printers' devil and the dirty towel. One morning Colonel 
Oberly was taking an ice cream soda and discussing his last 
novel with the barkeep, when the latter said: "Colonel, here 

comes old ; hide behind the counter and I will ask him 

about your book, and then you can get his real opinion, which 
I know will be flattering to you." 

The colonel thought it a good idea and hopped behind the 
counter. When the critic came in and had his whiskey set out 
in front of him the barkeep asked him, casually, if he had read 
Colonel Oberly's last novel. 

"Yes," growled the old printer, "and he stole every line of it 
from Ned Buntline." 

That was more than the colonel could stand, and, yelling: 
"You liar" he rose from behind the counter with the ice pick 
in his hand and took after the critic. It was a hot chase. The 
critic got away, but lost his drink. There were two shocked 
and surprised individuals that morning. Colonel Oberly expected 
to hear all kinds of praise for his book and got the opposite, 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 81 

while the old printer expected to condemn the book in a breath 
and take his drink in peace. 

Colonel Oberly had one great virtue. "Whatever he wrote 
for a newspaper he held himself responsible for and never 
sought to hide behind the management or any of the higher 
editors. I will never forget the advice he gave me when I was 
made managing editor of the Galveston News. 

"Now," said he, "you will be called on to pass on many things 
that affect character and interests. It is a big responsibility 
and I want to tell you the easiest way to meet it. When you 
strike anything questionable, re'ad it over carefully and then 
go out and take a walk, thinking it over. When you get back, 
read it again and then ask yourself, 'Am I willing to fight for 
this in case a row is made?' If you can't answer in the affirm- 
ative throw the stuff in the waste basket." There is a world 
of wisdom in that advice. 

What made me think of Colonel Oberly this morning was 
seeing in the papers where the printers were preparing their 
burial place in such an elegant way. The colonel's name was 
mentioned among those buried in Glenwood Cemetery. He died 
suddenly, I think, in 1886. It was awful weather in February 
and it had been raining for weeks. Houston was a sea of mud 
and after getting off the few paved streets navigation was im- 
possible. The road to Glenwood was impassable and it was 
necessary to use the street cars for the funeral. The coffin was 
taken over to the Central Depot and there transferred to a 
street car drawn by mules. Other cars took the places of car- 
riages and thus the first and probably the last street car funeral 
in Houston took place. 

* 4* 4» 

HONEST BOB WILSON. 

HONEST BOB" WILSON has never received that justice 
from the writers of history to which his eminent services 
to the colonists, to the Republic, and to the young state 
of Texas entitle him. He was one of the remarkable men of 
the early days and it is a shame that he is not better remem- 
bered. 

Old Houstonians remember him, not so much for anything that 
they knew of his achievements, as from the fact that he was 
the father of the Hon. James T. D. Wilson, the first mayor chosen 
by the people after reconstruction days, when the Democrats 
gained control of the state. The younger generation know of 
him as being the grandfather of the Wilson boys, who have 
done so much for the growth and advancement of Houston and 
who, today, have their shoulders to the wheel, working for an 
even greater Houston. 

It is scarcely credible that a man of such accomplishments 
should have his memory perpetuated only through the lesser 
accomplishments of his descendants, yet that is literally true 
of "Honest Bob" Wilson. 



82 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

His title of "Honest Bob" was not given him in derision, as 
is the case so often nowadays, but was the result of, and the 
expression of, genuine admiration for him by his fellow citizens. 

I have heard my grandfather tell the story often. Bob was 
a member of the senate of the Republic of Texas. He believed 
in publicity and was silly enough, measured by later day stand- 
ards, to think that the people had a right to know something 
of everything their servants did. The members of the Texas 
congress knew more about fighting than they did about par- 
liamentary matters. 

Soon after congress assembled it became necessary to hold 
an executive session and those who knew something about such 
matters warned the members that nothing must be divulged 
about any matter discussed. It was impressed on them that 
the meeting .was to be a secret one, and it was also impressed 
on them that any member who broke the rule of silence would 
be severely punished. "Honest Bob" listened to all that was 
said but did not say anything. 

It was in 1838 during the Lamar administration and Burnet, 
being vice president, presided over the senate. Burnet had a 
scheme by which the bonds of the new Republic of Texas were 
to be exchanged for South Carolina state money, and he was 
urging the adoption of a resolution by the senate that would 
enable him to carry out his plan. 

"Honest Bob" owned a line of sailng boats plying between 
Harrisburg and New Orleans, and through his captains he had 
heard that the South Carolina money was of little value. He 
never had agreed with Burnett on any question, so he made a 
most vicious attack on his plan. 

It was during an executive session of the senate that the ar- 
gument and outbreak occurred. The most unparliamentary lan- 
guage was used, and almost a free fight occurred. When the 
session closed "Honest Bob" went out on Main Street and told 
everybody he met what had taken place and what the vice 
president was trying to do. 

When the senate heard what he was doing the sergeant-at- 
arms was sent after him. He was arrested, brought before the 
senate and promptly expelled from that body. 

A special election was ordered by the senate to fill the va- 
cancy caused by his expulsion. Three days later the election 
was held and "Honest Bob" was re-elected to the senate by 
practically a unanimous vote. 

The people did not stop at merely electing him, but when the 
result was known, they took him on their shoulders and bore him 
back to the senate chamber and deposited him before the mem- 
bers with instructions to leave him alone and not try to expell 
him again. That is, briefly, how he obtained the name of "Hon- 
est Bob." 

He was a remarkable man and did much for the future great 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 83 

state. He was a progressive, all right. He came to Texas in 
1828 and settled down about Harrisburg. 

He was a man of great energy and enterprise. His boats 
were the first to come up Buffalo Bayou and he made the first 
permanent improvements at Harrisburg, establishing quite an ex- 
tensive manufacturing plant there. He had a sawmill, a black- 
smith shop, a wagon and wheel shop and had several good houses 
for his workmen. 

When the revolution broke out he contributed largely to the 
cause, and Santa Anna made him pay dearly for his patriotism, 
for he burned up everything he could lay his hands on. 

The war ruined him, but he would not stay ruined, and while 
the Republic of Texas and the State of Texas, with the prover- 
bial ingratitude of republics, failed to reimburse him for his 
losses, he succeeded in making what was considered at that time 
to be a modest fortune before his death. 

I am not certain, but it is my impression that the body of 
"Honest Bob" Wilson lies in or near the old Catholic Cemetery 
down in the Second Ward. I have not been there for many 
years, but I am almost certain that there is a marble shaft 
erected over his grave. 



JOE TYRAN AND HAMP COOK. 

ONE afternoon recently I was in a book store on Main Street 
when a gentleman who is a candidate for a county office 
came in. The book man asked him how his campaign 
was coming on and the candidate assured him that he had every- 
thing going his way and that there could be no doubt of his tri- 
umphant election. He said he had a majority of the votes 
pledged to him already and that they were coming his way all 
the time. He was absolutely confident of his election. 

After he went away the book man told me that the chap would 
come out about fourth in the race. I don't know anything about 
local politics, nor about the candidates, either, but from what I 
know of elections in the past it will not surprise me if the book 
man's prediction proves to be true. I could never understand 
why it is so, but it is true, nevertheless, that so soon as a man 
becomes a candidate for oifice he is seized with a species of 
insanity which may be called cacoethes credenti, or, in plain 
English, he becomes a sucker and believes everything that the 
voters tell him. He may be a hard-headed business man and one 
who weighs everything and gives it its true value, but when he 
becomes a candidate he reverses his methods and becomes the 
most credulous being on earth. It is strange, but it is true. Per- 
haps the candidate loses no advantage by becoming that way, 
for each one of his opponents is equally guilty. 

About the most amusing case of this kind of credulity that 
ever came under my personal observation occurred several years 
ago here in Houston. The Harris County Democratic convention 



84 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

was being held in the opera house; that was located in the city 
hall. I met Joe Tyran, who invited me to go up in the hall. He 
told me he was going to be nominated for one of the big county 
offices on the first ballot; that he had prepared a fine speech 
and wanted me to hear him. Of course, I went. On the way he 
told me that taking the ballot was a mere formality, as he had 
a sure thing, and would get the vote of nearly every delegate 
in the convention. When we got to the hall Joe and I went into 
one of the front boxes, so he could step right out on the stage 
when the time came for him to return thanks to the delegates. 
We had not been there long before the time came for balloting 
for Joe's office. One or two nominating speeches were made 
and then the voting began. The result knocked me and Joe 
out of the box, for out of the 86 votes in the convention Joe got 
only three. He looked at me and I looked at him and then he 
crawled out of the box onto the stage and raised his hand. There 
was a dead calm. Joe advanced to the front of the stage and 
said: "Mr. Chairman: I want to say that there are 83 of the 
biggest liars in this hall that God ever let live." 

In a moment bedlam broke loose. Delegates were on their feet 
in all parts of the hall gesticulating and shouting, while every- 
body was yelling and hooting. One little fellow clear back in 
the rear of the hall, who had a voice like a fog-horn, managed to 
make himself heard and finally the others stopped their racket 
long enough for him to speak. 

"Mr. Chairman," he said. "I object to any such language 
being — " but he got no further than that. Joe did not know who 
he was, but he shot in the dark. "Sit down, you infernal scoun- 
drel. You offered to sell out to me this morning for twenty 
dollars." 

Now everybody in the house knew this charge was absurd and 
groundless, and that Joe was saying what he did simply because 
he was mad, but the crowd enjoyed the situation and raised a 
yell that could have been heard for blocks away. The little fel- 
low could do nothing and realizing his helplessness, he collapsed. 
It took a long time to restore order and get the convention down 
to business again. When things got quiet I left, feeling that I 
had been more than repaid for my trouble in going up to hear 
Joe's speech, even if the one he delivered had been a substitute. 

Joe Tyran was a politician from away back — sometimes. He 
was a politician all the time, but a mighty poor one occasionally. 
He had an impolitic way of letting his personal friendships in- 
fluence him and you know no successful politician can do that. 
From that failing Joe made a poor politician. He was a splendid 
fellow and everybody loved him. He would get to be so popular 
that it would actually hurt, and then, acting on impulse, he 
would do something that would throw all the fat in the fire. 
That was only when he was a candidate himself. When he was 
working for a friend he could do much that was valuable and he 
always could be counted on to do it. Joe sure was impulsive, 
and I can prove that by Col. Hamp Cook. There is a good story 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 85 

here and I am going to tell it, even if I have to dodge Col. Hamp 
Cook for the next month for doing so. 

On one occasion there was a red-hot campaign on and Joe and 
Hamp were taking an active part in it. They boarded the old 
mule car to go down to the Union Depot on Congress Avenue. 
On the way down they jumped off the car and went into a grocery 
store to get some cigars. They were standing talking to the man 
when a big yellow negro came in. Joe looked at the negro for 
a moment and then, without a word, hauled off and smashed 
him in the face. The negro did not understand what it was 
about, but he promptly knocked Joe down and mounted him. 
That was more than Colonel Cook could stand-, so he batted the 
negro, knocking him off Joe and engaging him himself. The ne- 
gro had the Colonel on his back the next minute and proceeded 
to beat him up a whole lot. Hamp fought and fought, but he 
also yelled for Joe to help him out. Joe had gotten up and 
stood there with his hands in his pockets shouting: 

"Give him hell, Hamp. Give him hell." 

"Pull him off, I tell you. Don't you see he's giving me hell?" 
replied Hamp. 

"No, he's not," replied Joe. "Keep it up, you've got him." 
Finally the store man pulled the negro off Hamp and restored 
order for a moment, but only for a moment, for Hamp forgot 
all about the negro in his anxiety to get at Joe. The man had 
hard work to prevent another fight, but finally restored order. 

I had forgotten all about that convention and that battle royal 
until that candidate came in the book store the other day and 
set the current of my thoughts backward to the days when there 
were more things happening in Houston that had life and vim 
in them, in a day, than happen now in a month. 

* * * 

DESPERADOES AS SOLDIERS. 

HOUSTON has introduced some remarkable characters in 
the past, and some of her sons have established enviable 
reputations in the world. There are others of her sons 
who have made names fQr themselves as great warriors in pri- 
vate life; in a word, as desperadoes, and others as near-des- 
peradoes. In the early days each community had its "bad man," 
who was pointed at with something like pride, for he was sure 
to shed a kind of luster on the community. Houston had sev- 
eral of these "bad men," gun fighters or whatever is the proper 
name for them. There was Kane Norton, who was killed in the 
battle of Mansfield, over in Louisiana; Tom Clarke, who was 
knifed to death by a dozen Mexicans in the market house in 
San Antonio, after he had killed several of them and exhausted 
all the shots of his six-shooter, and last, but not least, Buck 
Stacey, of whom I am going to speak at more length now. Buck 
did not have the glory of dying on the field of battle or of dying 
amid the bodies of those who had fallen before his deadly pistol 



86 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

but he did have the honor of being the first man condemned to 
death by a court-martial and executed on this side of the river 
during our great war. But we will come to that later. 

Buck was a "throw-back" if ever there was one. His father 
died when he was quite young and he was raised by his mother, 
a God-fearing, praying, Christian woman. His home life and 
surroundings were such as should have produced a preacher or 
at least a Sunday school superintendent, but they produced, if 
they had anything at all to do with it, something exactly the 
opposite. He was a magnificent looking young man. Nearly six 
feet high, hair and mustache as black as the raven's wing, while 
his eyes were those of the typical desperado, steel blue and as 
clear as crystal. He was a handsome fellow every inch of him, 
and yet, strange to say, he was no lady killer and avoided female 
company. 

Buck's first appearance on the stage as a shooting man was a 
surprise to everybody, for he made his debut suddenly and un- 
announced. Mr. T. T. Thompson, the great jeweler, who after- 
ward moved to Galveston, had a large jewelry store on the north- 
east corner of Main and Congress Avenue. He brought a young 
fellow from New York to clerk for him. This young man was 
one of the "flip" kind and had more impudence than sense. One 
day Buck's mother went to the store to make a purchase and 
could not find exactly what she wanted. The young clerk grew 
impatient and finally got so impertinent that she left the store, 
intending to complain to Mr. Thompson when she met him. At 
dinner she mentioned the incident, not dreaming that Buck 
would act in the matter. Buck ate his dinner, took his hat and 
strolled down to Thompson's. He walked in and so soon as he 
caught sight of the young fellow he opened fire on him. Buck 
had only two derringers. His first shot missed and the young 
fellow, screaming like a scared Indian, attempted to get upstairs 
behind a large jewel case. Buck saw his victim was about to 
escape, so he shot at him through the case, wrecking watches, 
brooches and everything else in the line of fire. He missed 
again, but he had scared the young man so badly that he rushed 
upstairs, escaped through a window, slid down a post and made 
good his escape. It was said that he ran all the way to Harris- 
burg. Whatever he did, he never showed up in the store again. 
Buck's mother paid all the damage that had been done and the 
matter was dropped. I doubt very much if the courts would 
have noticed the case if she had not paid anything, for in the 
early days it was hard to convict a man for resenting imperti- 
nence to his mother or to any other lady. That affair died out, 
but Buck had had a taste of "high life" and he liked it, so he 
went from bad to worse, became a professional gambler and 
was a "bad man." His greatest failing was his quick and un- 
governable temper. That was a bad asset for a desperado and 
would have led to his undoing in the end had he been permitted 
to run his course. Coolness and quiet decision were the main- 
stays of all the desperadoes I have ever known, and I have known 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 87 

several of the most prominent of them. Buck's passion always 
got the best of him and he was always at a disadvantage in con- 
sequence. 

When the war broke out there were several companies organ 
ized in Houston and at nearby points. These troops were for 
service along the Rio Grande and in New Mexico and in Arizona. 
Buck was among the first to volunteer. I am not certain, but I 
think he and Frank Le Mott were in Captain I. C. Stafford's 
company, which was the first company to leave Houston. There 
were a lot of mighty good men in that company and there were 
some pretty tough ones, too. Among them were several gam- 
blers and desperate men who had always been accustomed to 
have their way about everything, and to act as they pleased. 

These could not understand the necessary restraints that were 
placed on a soldier, and before a week had expired they were 
for kicking over the traces. The company, with other com- 
panies, was placed under command of General John R. Baylor, 
a born soldier and fighter. He started in at once to establish 
discipline, but he had hard work. The men gambled constantly 
and there were several shooting scrapes among them. Nearly 
every day somebody got shot. Finally General Baylor prepared 
an order which he had posted and also read at dress parade, 
announcing that the next man who was aggressor in a shooting 
scrape would be tried by drumhead court-martial and shot. That 
very evening Buck Stacey shot the sergeant of the company. 
He was arrested and put in the guard house. That night the 
sergeant died. The next morning Baylor called a drumhead 
court-martial. Buck was tried, convicted and shot. When he 
first realized that Baylor was in earnest and was going to shoot 
him sure enough his nerve gave way and he broke down. Then 
when he saw his end was inevitable he braced up and when the 
fatal moment came he faced the firing squad as coolly and brave- 
ly as if he were not the least interested in what they were about 
to do. He was ten times more self-possessed than any one on 
the ground, and died with his eyes open, facing his executioners. 
He refused to let them blind his eyes, but stood calmly facing 
the firing squad. 

That execution brought order out of chaos and established 
discipline in a way that nothing else could have done. The men 
realized that when Baylor said anything he meant it and that 
if he said he would punish certain offenses with death he would 
keep his word if he had to shoot every man in the regiment. 
The command became one of the best in the trans-Mississippi 
department, and did fine work for the four years of the war. 

Tom Clarke, who was killed in San Antonio, enlisted in the 
Bayou City Guards, the crack infantry company from Houston 
that formed part of the Fifth Texas regiment of Hood's Brigade 
in Virginia. How Clarke ever got out of the company and back 
to Texas I never knew. He did get back and afterwards joined 
Captain W. M. Stafford's company of artillery. He had not been 
with that company long before he slipped into San Antonio, 



88 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

resented a Mexican's slapping a woman, and killed the fellow, 
who made at him with a knife. Then a whole crowd of Mexicans 
attacked him. He killed them as long as his pistol held out 
and when he had fired his last shot he hurled the empty gun 
at them and was then cut to pieces by the survivors. It was re- 
ported that he killed six of them before they got him. 

Kane Norton, the other distinguished Houstonian, was not so 
fortunate in the mode of his death. He was killed by a Yankee 
drug clerk, just at the close of the battle of Mansfield. He 
rushed into the drug store and the clerk, being badly rattled, 
thought Kane was going to kill him so lie shot him dead. The 
next moment Kane's comrades entered and slew the clerk. If 
Kane had known that he was going to be wiped out, not by a 
desperado or soldier, but by a little, panic-stricken drug clerk, 
he would have been terribly humiliated. 
* 4* * 

"BUD" RANDOLPH A SCIENTIST. 

IF ANYONE thinks that the Houston Press Club is not an 
interesting place and full of surprises, that one is badly 
mistaken. One can always meet there someone who knows 
something about everything on earth. There is where the sur- 
prises come in. 

I came in contact with one of these surprises the other night 
when I discovered that "Bud" Randolph is one of the most pro- 
found entomologists in the state and that he has devoted many 
years to the study of bugs. 

He can tell you, offhand, without the least hesitation, the 
official names of bed bugs, cockroaches, boll weevils, tumble- 
bugs and of more kinds of beetles, better than any fellow I ever 
met. He is a wonder. 

Having tackled and mastered bugology. Bud evidently looked 
about for new fields to conquer and took up the study of natural 
history. His knowledge of rats, owls, skunks, cats, cur dogs, et 
omne genus, is equal to his knowledge of bugs. The best part 
of the thing is that he does not have to be "drawn out." The 
other night someone mentioned a night made wretched by bed- 
bugs and in a moment "Bud" had the floor. 

"Oh," said he, "there is a most interesting member of the bug 
family. In my opinion the bed-bug, or more properly speaking 
the coccyclus indica myonsims, is the most intelligent and 
thoughtful member of the dryonian family. He has sense like 
folks; he takes no chances and makes careful calculation before 
making an attack. He hides out when a light is on but comes 
to the front the moment it is turned out. He knows what he is 
doing all right and so do you when he gets to work. 

"I have studied him and his habits and find that his bump of 
local attachment is wonderfully developed. He never leaves a 
place when once he establishes himself and he invites about a 
million of his friends to come and share the good thing he has 
found. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 89 

"When he has established himself the only thing to do is to 
set fire to your house, lock the doors and windows and back off 
and watch the fun. It is expensive, but it is the only sure 
remedy. i 

"The bed-bug has a terrible enemy in, the tiger beetle, which 
we scientists know under the name drastus lionions fabrista. 
He could and would, eat a bedful of bed-bugs ini two minutes if 
he could only get at them. The trouble is that the bed-bugs get 
inside the. mattresses and into the cracks of the bed while the 
tiger has to content himself with a mere surface examination of 
the bedspread. 

"Speaking of rats," continued Bud, though no one had men- 
tioned rats or even thought of them, "they are interesting mem- 
bers also. When I first started to study themf I was prejudiced 
against them, but I soon learned to admire them, for they so 
often do the unexpected and are constantly springing cute little 
surprises. 

"I remember one morning my lady stenographer pulled open 
her desk drawer to begin ,her day's work. Without a word of 
warning seven rats, one big one and six smaller ones, leaped out 
on her — we had to haul her out in the yard and pour water on 
her to bring her to. 

"Don't you know those rats planned the whole thing and 
laughed over the success of the joke afterward? I feel certain 
that they did. 

"When I built my residence I built it rat-proof, of course, but 
the contractors did not. I had not been) there long before I 
could hear the rats dancing and frolicking overhead in my bed- 
room. Occasionally one would leave his place and fall down 
between the walls. In trying to catch himself on the rough 
plastering on the inside he would make a terrible racket. If 
you did not know/ the space was too small you would think it 
was a dog or a calf falling. 

"I stood it as long as I could and then I got a (spring trap and 
set it out in the hall. The first night, about 2 o'clock there was 
a terrible racket out there, and I realized that I had got some 
game. I turned on the light and went out. 

"By the time I got there the rat was half way up the stair 
steps, lugging the trap with him. He was caught by one of his 
hind legs. When he saw me he abandoned the idea of going 
up, turned a summersault and came down, trap and all, in the 
middle of the hall. He was fighting mad, too, and made for me 
with blood in his eyes. As I had on only a night gown and was 
both barefooted and barelegged I retired promptly, slamming the 
door as I did so. I got a chunk of stovewood and then finished 
his ratship. 

"I sunned the trap next day and set it again. Nothing doing. 
Same result the next night and for several nights succeeding. 
I was congratulating myself on having scared off the rats and 



90 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

was sleeping peacefully one night when the most horrible racket 
you ever heard broke out in the hall. 

"I realized that it was the trap again, but could not imagine 
what it had caught. I could hear the trap hit the floor, then 
it would hit the ceiling, bound off to the wall and come back to 
the floor with noise enough to wake the dead. It woke the 
whole neighborhood up and I could see lights being turned on 
in half a dozen nearby houses. They must have thought that 
I had caught a burglar or that a burglar had caught me and 
that I was trying to get away from him. 

"Finally I switched on the light and peeped out in the hall. 
The mystery was solved. 

"I had caught my wife's pet torn cat and he did not like it 
either. I had an 'underworld' time getting him free from the 
trap, too. I found a corn sack, wet it so it would stick, and 
threw it over him. Then I got him by the head and held him 
firmly until I could open the trap. 

"When I released him he did not stay to have his leg dressed, 
but went out of the open window like a streak of lightning. He 
did not show up again for ten days or two weeks and when he 
did come he examined the hall thoroughly to see if it was safe 
for him to come in. 

"It seems he entered through an open window that night and 
jumped down right into the trap. Of course he thought it was 
a put up job and I don't think he ever forgave me for it. 

"Yes, I have had experience with skunks, too. "We know them 
under the scientific name 'Magnus Odoriferous Felenus Ameri- 
canus,' and they are all that the name implies. 

"I and four or five cur dogs had an experience with seven of 
them in one bunch. The dogs corralled them on the prairie in 
a bunch of weeds and I was fool enough to get close up and take 
a shot at them. 

"When I and the dogs got through vomiting, I realized that I 
had killed all seven of them and that they had nearly killed me 
and the dogs. 

"I was with some boys in a wagon but they made me walk all 
the way to town, about six miles. When I got home they made 
me burn my clothes out in the yard and get under the hydrant 
and scour myself with lye soap. It was awful. It was a very 
cold day but I had to do it anyway." 

4" * * 

FOUGHT TO THE DEATH. 

AFTER the war a number of young men came to Houston, 
seeking employment. There were some professional 
men but the majority were young fellows just out of the 
army, with nothing to do and whose entire capital consisted of 
nothing more tangible than youth and good appetites. Some 
of them afterward rose to prominence in -the commercial and 
financial world, while others drifted away and were lost sight 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 91 

of. Among these young men were two who were destined to 
establish a tragic mystery here. One was the son of a gentle- 
man of Galveston, a man of means, who established his son in 
business on Congress Avenue, between Travis and Main Street. 
The young merchant who was so fortunately established was 
named Ed Brown. The other young man was Ed Prewit, who 
had come to Houston from somewhere up the state and had 
secured a clerkship in the freight department of the Houston and 
Texas Central Railway with Mr. J. Waldo, at that time local 
freight agent. 

Brown and Prewit became great friends. They roomed at the 
same place and after business hours were almost invariably to- 
gether. They were both slender, weighed about 135 pounds and 
were between 19 and 20 years old. Aside from physical resem- 
blance, no two men could have been more unlike. Brown was 
full of life and animation. He loved a joke, whether at his own 
expense or not, and was always ready for fun or frolic. Being 
on "easy street," he could afford to take life easj' and did so. 
Prewit, on the other hand, while not morose, was very quiet and 
sedate. With him life was a serious problem. He was polite 
and gentlemanly and made many warm friends, who admired him 
for his sterling qualities. Both young men were favorites and 
each numbered among his friends the friends of the other. 

Late in the summer of 1867 I was standing on Main Street, a 
few doors north of where Kiam's place now is, in company with 
Charley Gentry, Andrew Hutchinson and Prewitt. Some one 
asked Prewit where Brown was. He replied that he did not 
know. Just at that moment Brown turned the corner of Preston 
Avenue and came toward us. When he saw Prewit he hesitated 
for just a moment and then advanced, walking very slowly. 
Prewit moved a little nearer the middle of the sidewalk and stood 
facing Brown as if awaiting his coming. Both were very pale 
and we saw at a glance that something was wrong. Brown came 
slowly forward and Prewit stood there as if awaiting him. For a 
minute it looked as if Brown intended to walk right over Prewit, 
but just before reaching him Brown turned slightly and passed 
Prewit so closely that he nearly grazed his coat. As he did so 
he raised his hat with mock politeness, and saying, "Good after- 
noon, gentlemen," passed on. Some one in the crowd called 
to him to come back, but he paid no attention and passed on 
down the street. 

Prewit stood for a moment and then rejoined us with a smile 
and a casual remark as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken 
place. Of course we pressed him with questions, trying to find 
out what was wrong between him and Brown, but he expressed 
surprise that we should think there was anything wrong and de- 
clared there was no cause for our assumption to the contrary. 
In a few minutes we separated, Prewit, Andrew Hutchinson and 
I going toward the old Capitol Hotel, now the Rice. As we 
walked Andrew remarked that Brown had come near running 



92 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

into Prewit. "It's a good thing he did not do so," said Prewit. 
"Why, what would you have done?" asked Andrew. 

We were near the corner of Main and Prairie Avenue now 
and Prewitt did not answer at once. Just as we reached the 
corner Prewit turned to Andrew and said: 

"If he had run into me I would have cut his d heart 

out, that's all." He turned the corner abruptly and walked down 
Prairie Avenue. 

That night I met Brown on Main Street and had a long talk 
with him. He seemed much depressed and was low spirited at 
first, but this gradually wore off and before we parted he seemed 
to be as bright and happy as ever. He explained his low spirits 
by saying that he had seen a ghost the night before and that he 
was either haunted or going crazy, he did not know which. He 
said this half in fun and half seriously. He denied emphatically 
that there was any trouble between Prewit and himself and 
laughed at the idea of my thinking there was. Of course I said 
nothing to him of Prewit's remark, merely giving as the reason 
for my asking the question his' and Prewit's conduct on the street 
that afternoon. 

The next day I did not come down town until late in the after- 
noon and the first thing I heard was that Brown and Prewit had 
killed each other on the corner of Fannin Street and Congress 
Avenue on the northwest corner of court house square. 

The particulars as I learn them were as follows: Prewit, in 
company with Mr. Waldo and another gentleman, was coming 
toward Main Street along Congress Avenue, while Brown, with 
a companion, whose name I forget, was going in the opposite 
direction. Neither would give way and they collided. Each 
jumped back, Prewit drawing his knife, a big butcher knife, and 
Brown his pistol. To my mind. Brown did not want to kill 
Prewit, for he could have done so easily, as he was an experf 
with a six-shooter. Instead of shooting Prewit down he tried 
to shoot the knife out of his hand. His first ball went through 
Prewit's right wrist, completely disabling his right hand. How- 
ever, Prewit quickly changed the knife to his left hand and began 
advancing on Brown, moving in a zigzag course, so as to dis- 
concert Brown's aim as much as possible. Brown fired at Prew- 
it's left hand, but missed, and instantly fired at his arm. The 
ball passed through the arm, but did not break the bone. Prewit 
kept advancing like a cat, preparing to jump. The gleaming 
knife and the cool, cat-like movement of Prewit evidently got 
on Brown's nerves and disconcerted him. He fired point blank 
at Prewit and missed him. Prewit, with his knife, was uncom- 
fortably close by now, so Brown stepped back to gain a better 
position. As he did so his heel caught on a wooden bridge that 
spanned the gutter and he fell full length on his back. The next 
second, like a wild tiger, Prewit made the long delayed leap 
and, landing astride of Brown's body, he drove the butcher knife 
through his heart. Prewit was about to strike again when 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 93 

Brown's companion rushed up and struck Prewit on the side of 
the head with a six-shooter, knocking him off several feet to the 
side, where he lay insensible. In spite of his frightful wound, 
Brown staggered to his feet an'd fired again at Prewit as he lay 
on the ground. Brown then' turned and walked half a block 
before he fell dead. 

Prewit was taken to the old Fannin House nearby, where he 
died the next day from loss of blood. Brown's bullets having 
severed several arteries and he having lost a great quantity. 
•{• {• 4t 

GOOD OLD STEAMBOAT DAYS. 

IN one respect Houston has deteriorated woefully in the last 
forty or fifty years. Commerce has ruined Buffalo Bayou, 
frpra an artistic point oi: view, though it has made it a thou- 
sand times more valuable and important in every other way. In 
the "good old days," when the fine steamboats were in evidence, 
it was a delight and pleasure to make a trip down the bayou. 

The old bayou was not what it has become since. It was nar- 
row, but it was deep; its water was clear and beautiful and its 
banks were overhung with trees which were vine-clad, and, 
while they impeded navigation, they added greatly to the beauty 
of the stream. Then the steamboats they had in those days! 
They were beauties — veritable floating palaces. The Mississippi 
might have had larger boats, but there was none finer or more 
elegantly finished than our bayou boats. 

The trip from Houston to Harrisburg was rather difficult, be- 
cause of the twisting and winding of the bayou and also because 
of overhanging trees. After passing Harrisburg, the bayou 
broadened and then it was simply delightful. They served but 
one meal on the boats — supper, or as we would call it today, 
dinner — at about 7 o'clock. It was a meal long to be remem- 
bered, for it was composed of every delicacy obtainable and 
was justly famed throughout the country. Travelers wrote 
about it and everybody enjoyed it. 

The very early boats were not so famed. They were rather 
primitive in every way, but after 1850 the bayou boats began 
to put on style and there was none finer anywhere. 

There were no railroads in Texas in those early days and all 
the commerce with the outside world was done over Buffalo 
Bayou. The cabins of the steamboats were fixed luxuriously 
for the passengers, but the lower deck and every available inch 
of space was given over to freight. The principal cargoes down 
the bayou consisted of cotton and hides, while the return car- 
goes were dry goods, plantation supplies and such things. 

The modern compressed bale of cotton was unknown at that 
time, and the bales of cotton were huge, unwieldy things that 
took up much spstce. It was surprising to see how many of these 
one of those steamboats could get on board. They were piled 



94 TRVE STORIES OF OLD 

on top of each other until they reached up to the hurricane deck. 
Of course the danger of fire was very great, but, while one or 
two boats actually burned, probably none of the fires was ever 
traced to cotton becoming ignited. 

There were several serious tragedies on the bayou, for one 
or two boats blew up with disastrous effect. There were some 
narrow escapes from storms in Galveston Bay, too. History 
is not certain about the name of the boat, but it was the Palmer 
or Farmer, that blew up and caught on fire in the bay in about 
1853. If one could get into the old Episcopal Cemetery at the 
foot of Dallas Avenue, this could be ascertained, for in the lot 
of Dr. Evans, in that graveyard, is a small monument erected 
to the memory of a negro man whose remains lie buried there 
with those of the members of the doctor's family. 

This negro lost his life when the steamboat was wrecked, 
while, after having saved some lives, he was making heroic 
efforts to save others. The writer went out to the cemetery 
the other day for the express purpose of looking for that monu- 
ment, but found it in such a disgraceful condition, overrun with 
weeds, and, as one of the park employes said, with snakes, too, 
that the search was abandoned. 

After the war two or three magnificent boats were bought by 
Captain Sterret in Cincinnati, brought down the river and over 
the gulf to Galveston and put in the bayou trade. That gulf 
trip was a ticklish affair for the least rough weather would have 
swamped the boats. The trips were made immediately after 
a norther, when the gulf was as quiet as a mill pond. One of 
those boats was especially fine and was named the "T. M. 
Bagby," after T. M. Bagby, one of the most prominent citizens 
of Houston. This boat had a calliope, but it was very seldom 
used, possibly because no one knew how to play on it. 

Two of the fine boats that were brought here about the break- 
ing out of the war deserve more than passing mention because 
of the distinguished service they rendered the Confederate 
forces at the battle of Galveston. These were the Neptune and 
Bayou City. They were fitted out as gunboats, having breast- 
works of cotton bales. Each carried a big gun and a number 
of armed men. They made the attack on the Federal fleet while 
the land forces attacked on the land side. 

Both boats headed for the Harriet Lane, the largest of the ves- 
sels. The Neptune was sunk by a shell from one of the Federal 
gunboats but the Bayou City rammed and disabled the Harriet 
Lane and finally captured her. It was a most desperate under- 
taking, and though it was successful, simply because of its au- 
dacity, it would have failed a thousand times had it been tried 
over. How either of the frail boats escaped utter annihilation 
is a mystery. 

Those good old steamboat days have gone, and gone forever, 
for now the bayou has been widened and deepened and ocean- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 95 

going ships run where the palatial steamboats once floated. Of 
course the present is greater and grander than the past, but yet 
one cannot keep from sighing for the old days, when there was 
real pleasure m traveling and less break-neck haste and hurry. 
* * * 

HOUSTON'S FIRST MARKET MAN. 

NOT long ago I was talking to Colonel Phil Fall and one 
or two old-timers, when one of the gentlemen asked me 
If I could remember when the first market house was 
built. As that famous old house was erected several years be- 
fore I was born I denied all remembrance of its beginning but 
told him that I remembered the man who had the first market 
place in Houston and I do, too. He was a Frenchman named 
Rouseau. Originally there were two Rouseau brothers They 
had a big tent which was located on Preston Avenue between 
Stude s coffee house and Milam Street. Of course, Stude's place 
was not there then, but the Rouseau tent was on the lot west 
of where it now stands. Market Square was vacant then and 
was used as a wagon yard by those who brought country pro- 
duce to Houston and by ox wagons from the interior of the state 
which was at that time over on the Brazos, up about Washing- 

^l^n^l S-""^ ^"^^^ ^""^^'^ ^^^ ^"^"ty. Texas was sparsely 
settled, but Houston was then as now its commercial and busi- 
ness center. 

The Rouseaus were wide-awake and progressive and their 
tented market was profitable. They made too much money in 
fact, for their prosperity attracted fatal attention and one night 
when one of the brothers returned to the tent after a temporary 
absence he found the other one dead with his throat cut and all 
the money in the place gone. Thieves had murdered him ran- 
sacked the place and had gone, leaving no trace behind them, 
and the mystery has never been solved to this day 

hrl.^^ ^^^Z ^T^^'' *^°"^^ ^°"^^^ «*"^k^" by the loss of his 
brother and all his money, did not give up, but continued the 
business until the city, early in the 40's, erected the old wooden 
market house and drove him out of business. Then he erected 

grocery 7ore.'"' ''"""" '" '"' "'' '' ^" ''''' ^^^ ^^^"^'^ ^ ^^«Ie 

JjTr^'T^^" ^^^ ""^^ ""^^ ^"" ^"^ *^° things. One was his 
pretty daughter, named Charlotte, and the other was a large 
parrot that swore in French. Charlotte had charge of the store 
and was always there as much so as the parrot, which sat upon 

eenTn thTfrU; ""''' "' ''^ ^*°^" ''^^ °'^ ^^ --« -^^o" 
seen in the front room, or store proper, but remained nearly all 

the time in the back room, where he could be heard grumbling 
and growling. All the boys in town were afraid of him though 
for what reason I am unable to say. 

That was 15 or 18 years after his tent experience and he must 
have been rather an old man when I first knew him He was 



96 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

considered to be wealthy then and was prosperous. He was not 
destined to have a peaceful life, however. His early days in 
Houston, as already noted, were marked by a tragedy and 
another blighted his latter days here. For no known reason one 
night Charlotte ended her life with poison. Her death was as 
great a mystery as the murder of the brother had been. There 
was apparently no reason for her action. She had beauty, riches, 
a kind father, for the old man almost worshiped her, and every- 
thing to make her happy. The old man could not stand it. He 
sold his store and business for what he could get for them, 
Qlosed up all his affairs and left Houston forever. Some said he 
went back to France; others that he went to California. 

•!■ * 4" 

FRANK BATES. 

I HAD the pleasure of meeting my old friend, Frank Bates, 
on Main Street a few days ago. Of all the young men I 
knew when I left Houston, Frank has changed least and 
looks today exactly as he looked thirty years ago. It is marvel- 
ous what little change has taken place in his personal appear- 
ance, though of course, Frank is by no means an old man, being 
scarcely more than a well grown lad when I last saw him. There 
are wonderful changes that have taken place in him otherwise, 
for he is now a sedate, dignified country gentleman, married and 
settled, while then he was the wildest, hairbrained, fun-loving 
fellow that ever lived. If he ever had a serious thought no one 
found it out. 

Frank lived just about twenty years too late. Had he been 
older and more matured at the time when real bad men flourished 
he would have been one of them. There was never anything 
vicious or harmful about him. He was always the soul of honor 
and loyal to his friends, but his tastes ran towards fights and 
skirmishes, and having a Southern gentleman's distaste for a 
fist fight or anything so low as that, his inclinations were towards 
sixshooters and knives. 

Frank loved to talk of private battles and told marvelous 
stories of his fights with Indians .and frontier desperadoes. He 
was and is still a great favorite with everybody, for I defy any- 
body to be with Frank for half a day without falling in love 
with him. 

Frank was a member of the famous "world-beating" Light 
Guard, and when we went to Philadelphia he went along as one 
of the substitutes. Being a substitute, he did not have to drill, 
so had abundant leisure to go where he pleased. The second 
day after our arrival Dr. Carrycross, a large wholesale druggist 
of Philadelphia, came out to Fairmont Park, where we were 
camped, and asked for the Texas company. He introduced him- 
self and invited every member of the company to call on him 
when they went into town and asked them to make his place 
their headquarters. Some of the boys called on him the next 
morning and that evening he came out to see us again. After 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 97 

that he came every afternoon. He adopted the company and the 
company adopted him. 

He and Frank Bates became inseparable. He got Frank to 
talking— not a hard thing to do, by the way— and was never so 
happy as when listening to Frank's stories of Indian warfare and 
life of the frontier. Had a dime novel writer been present and 
taken down those stories his fortune would have been made. 
Frank saw the deep interest that Dr. Carrycross took in his 
stories, so he spread himself. I remember only the main points 
of one he told, but it serves well to show what and how Frank 
was doing in his efforts to entertain a genuine "tenderfoot." He 
was describing a wild ride he claimed to have taken once. "Yes, 
sir," he said, "I rode from near my plantation to Navasota, fifty 
miles, in little less than three hours. Let me see. What was 
I in such a hurry about? Oh, yes, I remember, I had shot a man 
that morning, and, then, feeling sorry, I went after a doctor 
for him," 

Frank stuffed Carrycross full of such stories and made him 
believe that his life had been one great tragedy from the time 
he left his cradle up to that moment. Carrycross swallowed it 
all and asked for more. Day after day he entertained the boys 
who went to town in the morning, but was entertained by them 
every afternoon at our camp. 

On the Sunday before we left for New York, we invited him 
out to dinner. After dinner we lay out on the grass, smoking 
and talking. Frank was making the best of his last opportunity 
and was telling some thrilling stories when Carrycross inter- 
rupted him: "Now boys," he said, "I want to tell you how much 
I have enjoyed your visit. There are 5000 or 6000 troops here, 
but you may have noticed that I have never gone near any of 
them. I have enjoyed being with you Texans too much. That 
enjoyment arises from two causes— first, because you are from 
Texas, and, next, because you have my dear friend, Frank Bates, 
with you. I have enjoyed hearing him talk more than I can 
make you understand. His descriptions of wild and woolly Texas 
have been perfect. I am a competent judge, too, for now I am 
going to tell you all something which will further explain the 
great interest I have had in you. I was for nine years a Texas 
ranger in West Texas and served under Captain Baylor along 
the Rio Grande for three years. I said nothing about this be- 
cause I was afraid Frank might stop talking. Now, that you 
are going away, it makes no difference, so I tell you." 

When the crowd realized that Frank had been stuffing a Texas 
ranger with blood and thunder stories for three weeks under 
the impression that he was an ignorant tenderfoot, a great shout 
went up and Frank took to his hole. We teased him all the way 
to New York and home again, but it was hard to tease a fellow 
who enjoyed a joke on himself as much as anyone else did and 
Frank did that. 

Good old Frank. May his days be long and happy ones. He 
IS dignified and sedate now, but somehow I rather prefer the 



98 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

happy-go-lucky Frank of a quarter of a century ago to the staid 
country gentleman he is today. 

* * * 

FIGHTING HOUSTON BOYS. 

LAST winter I was out walking with a gentleman near San 
Antonio when he suddenly turned to me and asked: 
"What has become of all the tumble bugs?" 

The question was so uncalled for, so foreign to all we had 
been talking about, that for a moment I suspected him of being 
the victim of sudden insanity. 

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"I mean just what I say; what has become of all the tumble 
bugs?" said he. "When you and I were boys there were millions 
of them everywhere, bright shiny fellows with yellow and gold 
on their wings and back, and black and brown ones. You could 
see them everywhere, but now you stop and think and see if 
you don't find that you have seen only a stray one, now and 
then, for years past. What has become of them?" 

I did stop and think and the more I thought the more I realized 
that what he said was true, and now I am like he and would 
like to have some scientific bug sharp answer his question. I 
have heard that quail and some other birds go with civilization 
and accompany the footsteps of the pioneer. If that be true, 
I see no reason why the tumble bug should not have his own 
individual peculiarity, which causes him to get out of the way 
completely when civilization shows up. Perhaps that is the 
proper answer to my friend's question. 

But I am not going to write anything about the disappearance 
of the tumble bug, for I don't know anything to write, beyond 
the fact that he has disappeared. The question I had in mind 
is one of equal importance and is related also to a disappearance 
— that of the fighting boy of long ago, who loved nothing better 
than a good scrap and who felt lonesome and somewhat humili- 
ated unless he had a black eye or bore the evidence of past 
combat. In the early days "fightin'," fishin'," swimmin' " and 
"huntin' " were the greatest joys of a boy's life, and, looking 
back on those happy days, I really believe that "fightin' " held 
first place in the hearts of all of them. 

There was no regular organization, each tub stood on its own 
bottom, and yet there were divisions of territory and the boys 
who lived in such divisions, while they fought freely among 
themselves, always banded together against an outside, common 
enemy. In the Fourth Ward, west of Main Street, there were a 
number of big boys, such as Phil Fall, Os and Matt Conklin, 
the two Lilly boys, George and John Harman, Ed and Billy 
Brown and others whom I have forgotten. They were the rec- 
ognized bosses of that part of town and any big boy who, like 
the knights errant of old, sought adventure "for the advance- 
ment of his lady love" or for any old thing, could go out that 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 99 

way any day and any time of day and find enough of it to last 
him for a week or two, or until he could get his eyes sufficiently 
open to see to get back for more. The fights were all fair and 
square, too; no doubling up or having a big boy jump on a 
smaller one. A boy had to tackle "a fellow of his size." The 
rules of the game were simple, too, and no deadly insult or loudly 
proclaimed challenge was necessary. The simple fact that a 
big boy from another part of town had dared to show himself 
at their favorite swimmin' hole or town ball games was taken as 
all sufficient casus belli and active hostilities were at once 
under way. 

The Fourth Ward was the best equipped of all for warfare, 
for a larger number of big boys and good fighters lived there, 
but what is now the Third Ward but which then was in two or 
three divisions, was not far behind. There were three gangs 
in this territory, but none of them had brilliant leaders. There 
were too many of them nearly evenly matched to admit of any- 
thing like leadership. I remember many battles royal that took 
place down at the arsenal swimming hole, which was a favorite 
battle ground, between the Howard boys, Mag and Vic Rogers, 
Bud and Prat Mathews, Henry and Jim Thompson, John and 
Milt McGowan, Joe Wills, Hiram and Billy Church and a number 
of others whose names I have forgotten, I was a little fellow 
and therefore immune from attack, being protected by my size, 
but occasionally, quite often as a matter of fact, they would 
produce a boy of my size and I would have to fight for the 
privilege of remaining there. 

Those who remember the quiet, good-natured gentleman that 
Dr. James Blake grew up to be will no doubt be surprised to 
hear that he was one of the greatest scrappers of his day when 
a boy. He was terribly handicapped by his size, for he was a 
greai: big boy for his age and always had to fight up hill, that 
is, go against boys of his size but who were much older than 
he. If no such material was at hand he would take on two 
boys smaller than himself, and I remember on one occasion he 
became over zealous and took on three with the result that he 
got beaten nearly to death. As I remarked, those were fair 
fights. No knives, sticks, bricks or other weapons were used 
and the strange part was that very little anger or temper was 
ever shown. Five minutes after a fight the boys were as good 
friends as ever and never bore ill will or resentment toward 
each other. 

It was really a painful and trying thing for a Houston boy to 
have to go to Galveston or for a Galveston boy to have to come 
to Houston, for in either case the visit was simply a continual 
round of fights. Then as now the Galveston boys were "sand- 
crabs," while the Houston boys were "mudcats," though the use 
of such names was considered a deadly insult then and always 
resulted in a fight. 

I understand that it is not considered the proper thing for 
school boys to fight now and that there are any number of them 



100 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

who have never had a single fight in their lives. It makes me 
feel awful sorry for them, for in that fact I discover another 
great misfortune they have in being born in a place where there 
are no old-fashioned swimmin' holes, no place to go huntin* and 
fishin' except away off. 

♦ * * 

HATED NEGROES AND LOVED MULES. 

POOR old Tom Delaney! Had the yellow fever spared him 
in 1867 he would have left a lasting impression on Hous- 
ton, for he had much about his makeup that would make 
men remember him. Tom was an ex-Yankee soldier, 
who came to Galveston with the army of occupation and was 
mustered out of the service there. He then came to Houston 
and rented the old stable and lots on the corner of Smith and 
Prairie, owned by Dr. Evans, and now occupied by the big brick 
building of the Model Laundry. Tom had a little money which 
he had saved and he invested in one or two horses and one or 
two mules and began some kind of contract work. 

He had one or two marked peculiarities. One was his intense 
love for dumb animals and the other his intense hatred for 
negroes. In his estimate a mule was far ahead of a negro and 
anyone could get a fight out of him at a moment's notice by 
merely suggesting that he had fought in the Yankee army to 
free the negroes. He claimed that he had fought for the old 
flag and that the negro got free through accident and not through 
Intention and that if the soldiers could have their way every 
negro would be put back in slavery right off. This, by the way, 
was the way nine-tenths of the ex-Federal soldiers talked, so 
Tom was not peculiar to so great a degree in that respect. 

Tom's love for his horses and mules was sublime. He was a 
"muletarian" and "horsetarian" of the highest order. Now 
everybody knows that, having such feelings, Tom was bound to 
have lots of trouble with his mixture of negro drivers and mules. 
He was in hot water all the time and but for the fact that he 
was built on the giant plan and was able to use his fists with 
almost as much force as his mules could use their heels, he 
would never have been able to manage his negroes. Tom had 
to employ negroes, for at that time white men did not care to 
work for ex-soldiers as mule drivers. It was a case of pure 
necessity. He hired the negroes but got satisfaction by knocking 
them about whenever he found them out in any rascality. One 
fixed and iron-bound rule was that the drivers should not ill treat 
the horses and mules. Now anybody who knows a negro and a 
mule knows how absurd that rule was. A mule expects to be 
mauled and ill-treated by a negro and a negro could np more get 
work out of a mule by treating him as if he were a Sunday school 
scholar than he could fly. Tom had several fights before he 
found out the truth of this and the negroes found out that he 
was in dead earnest in enforcing his rules. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 101 

The climax was reached, however, not through any ill treat- 
ment or anything of that kind, but, strange to say, through the 
efforts of one of the negro drivers to beautify one of the horses 
he was driving. This horse had a rather long tail, and probably 
it was because the horse switched this long tail in his face and 
not for the purpose of making the horse more attractive, as the 
negro claimed, that the latter determined to cut it off. Whatever 
the cause that led to this act, the fact remains that when Tom 
came in his lot one hot Saturday evening he found his horse 
with a much abbreviated tail and the fly season just under good 
headway. 

Tom looked at the poor horse wagging his patch of tail and 
then exploded. It is no use to quote his language, for The Chron- 
icle would not publish what he said. He ended by informing 
the negro that unless he had that tail back on the horse by 
Monday morning he was going to hear something drop. The idea 
of growing a new tail on a horse in so short a time was so 
absurd that the negro thought Tom was joking and would never 
think of the thing again. He was so sure that this was true 
that, instead of throwing up his job and keeping out of Tom's 
way, as he would have done had he been wise, he showed up 
bright and early Monday morning prepared to take his team out. 
Just as he was ready to drive away Tom showed up. He care- 
fully examined the horse's tail, just as if he expected to find it 
grown out again and, discovering that it was still in a nubbin' 
state, without a word he made a lunge at the negro's head with 
his big fist. The negro was too quick for him, however, and 
dodged to the other side of the wagon. Unfortunately for the 
flegro, when he dodged he got between the wagon and a high 
board fence and was thus penned up, with no way out except 
through or over Tom, who took up a position closing the way 
out. 

The negro became desperate and tried to argue with Tom, but 
that did no good. Tom advanced slowly but surely until he got 
within easy striking distance, and then he lammed loose with 
his fist. The negro lowered his head and received the blow on 
the top of it, thus rendering the blow harmless. The negro was 
thoroughly desperate by this time, so when Tom hit him he 
straightened up and aimed a kick at Tom's belly with all the 
strength he had in him. Now Tom had on what in these days 
would be called a "sweater." It was a big woolen shirt, loosely 
fitting, that came down well on his waist and was worn outside 
his pants. Tom dodged in his turn. The negro's foot flew up, 
caught the lower edge of the shirt in front and peeled it upward 
clear over Tom's head, just like skinning a piece of sausage. 
Tom was rendered absolutely helpless in a moment and could 
neither see nor use his arms, which were bound fast by the 
shirt. Before he could extricate himself the negro rushed past 
him and attempted to get over the high board fence. There was 
a big post in the yard and the negro took refuge on top of this. 
He was nerched up there, about 20 feet from the ground, wb^a 



102 [ TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Tom succeeded in getting untangled. He took a look at the 
negro and started across the street to get his gun. The other 
negroes shouted to the one up the post warning him of Tom's 
interttion. I don't know that there is any truth in the story, but 
the other negroes told it as true for a long time, that when the 
negro found Tom had gone after a gun he came down the post 
so quickly that the friction set his pants on fire. He made a 
dive at the fence, knocked off two or three boards, and when 
Tom came back with his gun he found his victim gone. 
4* ♦ 4" 

SAN JACINTO VETERANS. 

RECENTLY I have been reading Texas history. The Alamo 
and Goliad made my blood boil with indignation, but San 
Jacinto more than paid the debt that was due the Mexi- 
cans. The account of San Jacinto battle is charming reading 
for all native Texans, and I take particular pleasure in reading 
about it, because I knew so many of the men who took part in 
that glorious victory. When I was a boy the San Jacinto vet- 
erans were as thick about Houston as Confederate Veterans are 
today and you know that is a strong statement, for the latter 
appear to be numberless. The most conspicuous of the San 
Jacinto veterans was old man Tierwester, who had a powder 
horn with a Mexican bullet in it. I have told before how he 
would commence drinking early in the day on April 21, and keep 
it up all day. The more he drank the louder he talked and the 
more viciously he would shake the horn and tell the history of 
the bullet it contained. He was a Frenchman and lived down 
in Frostown, not far from where the gas works are now located. 
There was old man Jarmond, too, and a score or two of others. 
I speak of them as being old, but they were not really aged. 
They seemed old"to nie, but they could not have been more than 
40 or 50 on an average. 

One thing I have never seen mentioned in print and which 
seems forgotten by everybody, was the old "Liberty Pole" that 
was erected near the Houston House by the San Jacinto vet- 
erans and the people of Houston to commemorate Texas inde- 
pendence. A few days ago I met Captain William Christian and 
he asked if I remembered the old pole. I remembered seeing 
only a part of it that was, preserved by the veterans for many 
years. This liberty pole was a pine tree that had been trimmed 
and converted into a fine flag pole from which flew the Lone 
Star flag on festive occasions and always on San Jacinto day. 
It did duty as long as Texas remained a republic, but by the time 
it was admitted as a state the old pole had grown so decayed 
and weak that it broke off and fell to the ground. The veterans 
of San Jacinto, who had used the pole as a rallying point for 
years, secured a piece of it, about 20 feet long, and on April 21, 
after an appropriate salute had been fired from the "Twin Sis- 
ters," the two brass cannon used by the Texans at the battle, 
the veterans shouldered the piece of liberty pole and headed for 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 103 

the nearest barroom. Placing the old pole on the counter was 
all that was necessary to "put the drinks on the house" and the 
veterans had whatever they called for without money and without 
price. 

Then would begin a procession that would include every bar- 
room in town. The veterans were welcomed everywhere, for it 
would have been considered as an unfriendly act by the pro- 
prietor had any saloon been overlooked. 

After about the fourth or fifth drink the war talk would com- 
mence and the battle of San Jacinto would be fought over and 
over in the way that men of only one battle can do. It is a pity 
that some live reporter of today could not have been around, for 
Texas history would have been much enriched. I have made up 
my mind that if there is any truth in the theory of reincarnation, 
or whatever it is called where a fellow lives again in a different 
form but with the same surroundings, that I will be certain to 
arm myself with a notebook and a sharp pencil, for I see so many 
elegant bets the early Houston newspaper men overlooked. 

I don't know whatever became of the piece of liberty pole the 
veterans used in place of drink checks, but it would be a price- 
less relic if it could be found, if still in existence. 

Now it must not be supposed from what I have written, that 
the veterans were drinkers and roisterers. They were anything 
but that. They were the most honored and honorable citizens of 
the land, and having given the world a glorious republic they 
had a right to celebrate the anniversary of the event in any way 
they saw fit. It is singular how time changes a person's ideas 
of things. When I was a boy I looked on the veterans as just 
plain, ordinary men, who had had an opportunity to do a great 
thing and had done it. That was all. Old Tierwester with his 
horn, in my eyes was simply a funny old Frenchman who cut 
up clownish capers, while some of the others I looked upon with 
anything but veneration. Now when I look back on those men 
and appreciate the grand and lofty principle that inspired them 
and their willingness to die for the freedom of Texas, I feel like 
"Texas Thompson," one of Lewis' characters in the "Woolfville 
Tales," said he felt when he met an old gray-haired lady. I feel 
like getting down on my knees and asking the pardon of every 
one of those heroes for having walked the earth at the same 
time that they did. 

Speaking of the "Twin Sisters," reminds me of a good story 
Otto Erlchson told me the other day. He and I were talking 
about the two old cannons, and of how often they were fired 
when Texas was contemplating secession. His father's gun 
shop and residence was on market square and the firing of the 
cannon disturbed him greatly. He was disturbed in two direc- 
tions. Being an ardent Union man he did not like the reason 
for the salutes and the cannon being so near his house made it 
disagreeable for him. He was a high tempered, irascible man 
and perfectly fearless in expressing his opinion on any and every 
subject. He denounced the secessionists and their noise and 



104 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

made a row in every way. Otto and Alex Erichson concluded 
that they would relieve the old man of some of his trouble, so 
one night they got a couple of rat-tail files and spiked both of 
the cannon. The next day when it was discovered what had 
been done, there was great indignation, but the sulprits could not 
be found, for Otto and Alex took good care not to blow about 
what they had done, when they found what a row was being 
made. The cannons were taken to Mr. Erichson's shop and he, 
not knowing that his own boys had spiked them, charged $20 
to get them in shape again. The boys sneaked out and spiked 
them again, but the citizens either grew suspicious or^for some 
other cause, took the guns elsewhere to get them unspiked. 

"Now," said Otto, "as bitter as the old man was before the 
state seceded, the minute Texas left the Union, he turned around 
and became the bitterest man in Texas on the other side. He 
called me in the shop and literally rammed me in the army. He 
said every man able to sTioulder a gun ought to be in the army 
fighting for the South. It was funny what a change took place in 
him. He cursed the Yanks as bad as he had cursed the seces- 
sionists, and if he had not have been so old, I am certain he 
would have enlisted in the Confederate army himself." 



THE FAMOUS TWIN SISTERS. 

THERE is an old story about two fond parents who were 
watching the passing of a military company, in the ranks 
of which their son was marching. 

"Look at that," said the mother, "our boy is the only one in 
the whole company who is keeping step." 

This story has recurred to me several times lately and I will 
tell you why. Two or three years ago there was a great deal of 
talk about the famous "Twin Sisters," two cannon used with such 
good results by the Texans at San Jacinto. One report was that 
they were buried somewhere near Harrisburg; another was that 
they were thrown in Galveston Bay, between the island and Vir- 
ginia Point, and another story located them in the National Mu- 
seum at Washington. All these stories spoke of the "Twin Sis- 
ters" as iron pieces. Some gentlemen made extensive excava- 
tions near Harrisburg, where they were said to be buried, but 
the search was fruitless. Obviously it was impossible to search 
Galveston Bay, but the Washington story coulfl be investigated 
and I did so, with the result that I am informed by those in au- 
thority that there were no such cannon either in the museum or 
anywhere else in Washington. 

Aside from the historical interest in the subject I was attracted 
to it by the fact that when I was a boy there were two brass 
cannon, six-pounders, known as the "Twin Sisters," that stood 
for many years on the northwest side of market square. They 
were beautiful guns and each bore this inscription, engraved just 
ih front of the vent: 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 105 

"Presented to the Republic of Texas by the Ladies of Cin- 
cinnati." 

These guns seemed to be under no particular care and the boys 
pulled them about, sighted them and mowed down whole imagi- 
nary armies of Mexicans and Indians and played with them to 
their hearts' content without let or hindrance. To the boys of 
that day the "Twin Sisters" were as familiar objects on market 
square as are Dick Bowling's monument and the fountain to 
those of the present day. These guns were used by a Confed- 
erate battery during the war, but in 1871 or 1872 I saw one of 
them near the land office in Austin and read the inscription on 
it. Being so familiar with the subject, I was a bit amazed when 
I saw the "Twin Sisters" referred to as iron pieces and as having 
plates screwed on their sides stating that they were presented 
to the republic of Texas by General Chambers. Up to that time 
I was sure that I was the only man in the company who was keep- 
ing step and that all the others were wrong. Then I read Gov- 
ernor Frank Lubbock's Memoirs and when I found there an ac- 
count of the iron guns known as the "Twin Sisters" being turned 
over to Texas by Louisiana during or after the war, I began to 
wonder if I had not best catch step with the others. 

That two guns known as the "Twin Sisters" were used by the 
Texans at San Jacinto is a matter of history, but whether those 
guns were the iron pieces presented by General Chambers is 
the question, for now there can be no doubt that there were four 
guns in existence instead of two. Thus instead of settling the 
question it becomes more involved for all four are not only lost, 
but when, if ever, they may chance to be found, it will have to be 
determined whether they are genuine or not. That the "Twin 
Sisters" that were so long on market square were brass pieces 
I know beyond doubt, and the fact can be proven by Colonel W. 
M. Stafford of Galveston, Mr. L C. Lord, Mr. Owen Cochran and 
Mr. Henry Thompson of Houston and no doubt by others who 
were raised in Houston, whose names escape me just now. 

"When our war broke out these cannon were turned over to 
some Confederate company, but I know nothing of their history 
during the war. I do remember the last time they, or rather one 
of them, was fired before the war. It was in 1860, When Sam 
Houston was elected governor. Because of his pronounced Union 
views many of his former friends opposed him and he had a hard 
fight. When the news of his election was received, his friends 
got the "Twin Sisters" with the intention of firing a salute in 
honor of his victory. The guns were taken to a grassy hill, cor- 
ner of Fannin and Commerce Streets. One gun was fired and a 
bag of powder was rammed down the other, but when they started 
to prime the piece they found some one had spiked it. They 
rushed to the other gun, but found it spiked also. That broke 
up the salute, of course, but it was a fitting thing that the last 
time one of the "Twin Sisters" spoke in time of peace should 
have been in honor of the hero of San Jacinto. 

In early days there were a great many survivors of San Jacinto 



106 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

» — — ^ 

living in or near Houston and San Jacinto Day, April 21, was 
always celebrated in great style. The "Twin Sisters" were taken 
down to the corner of Commerce Street and a salute was fired, 
after which the town was literally turned over to the heroes of 
San Jacinto. I remember well one of the most conspicuous of 
them. He was Tierwester, an old Frenchman. At the battle of 
San Jacinto he had a powder horn slung to his neck. This pow- 
der horn was a cow's horn scraped very thin and had a wooden 
plug at the large end and a small plug at the little end of the 
horn. During the battle a Mexican bullet struck this horn and 
entered through one side, but did not have enough force to go out 
of the other. Tierwester never removed the ball, but on San 
Jacinto Day he came to the reunion wearing this horn round his 
neck and the drunker he got the louder he told the story and 
rattled the bullet. He was a great character and lived and died 
in what was then known as Frosttown, not far from the Hutchins 
residence, now the center of Houston almost. 

But these San Jacinto celebrations were not always fun alone. 
Tragedy cropped up occasionally. I remember one which oc- 
curred when I was a little boy. The "Twin Sisters" had been 
taken out, as usual, for the salute. A man named Tom Ewing 
took charge of the big end of the gun and volunteered to hold his 
thumb on the vent hole, a necessary precaution to keep the gun 
from exploding after it became heated. Mr. Warren Stansbury 
performed the duty of loading the piece. The salute was about 
half over and Stansbury was ramming home a charge when the 
gun became so hot that Ewing, thoughtlessly, took his thumb 
from the vent. Instantly the piece was discharged and Staas- 
bury's arm was so badly mutilated by the rammer that amputa- 
tion was necessary. He recovered and lived several years after- 
ward. 

Of course all has been done that can be done to locate the 
"Twin Sisters," but there is one question that can be and should 
be settled: Which Twin Sisters were used at San Jacinto? 
Those presented by the ladies of Cincinnati or those by General 
Chambers As a native Texan, I had the greatest respect and 
reverence for the brass pieces of market square and I would like 
to know if I have been worshipping false gods all these years. 
I know nothing of the Chambers iron cannon, but if they should 
be proven to be the real San Jacinto cannon I am willing to 
transfer my homage and allegiance to them. 
4* * •!• 

HOW HE LOST HIS EGGS. 

SOMEONE asked me the other day how I managed to think 
of so many things of the past to write about. The truth 
is that I have more things, unwittingly, suggested to mo 
every day than I could write up in a week. I rarely meet one of 
my old-time friends that some subject is not discussed which, 
directly or indirectly, suggests something of the past. Then, too, 
a line in the daily papers will cause me to think of some occur- 
rence, which has no apparent relation or reference to the sub- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 107 

ject of the paragraph. To illustrate this I will say that the other 
day I read one editor's paragraph, in which he said that if he had 
a fresh yard egg he would put it in a bank and draw checks 
against it. That witty paragraph did not make me think of the 
high price of eggs so much as it did of an amusing fight I once 
witnessed in which a bag of yard eggs played a prominent part. 

I have written of that grand old democratic war horse, Uncle 
Dick Wescott, and have told how he "held the fort," sometimes 
almost single-handed, against all comers. He was a Democrat 
first of all and then a "Southern gentleman" who would have 
willingly given up his life any time to prevent even the sem- 
blance of equality between the whites and negroes. He did not 
want them to have t"he same r-ights at the ballot box, but he 
could not prevent them doing so. Like all oldtime Southerners, 
he had a warm place in his heart for the old-time negroes, and 
was always willing to help them along in the world, except in 
the direction of the ballot box. When the white Republicans and 
negroes marshaled their forces and beat him in an election, he 
let them take the fruits of their victory, for no other reason than 
that he could not prevent them doing so. It was not because he 
was not willing enough to knock them out. 

Uncle Dick always declared that the government had gone only 
half way when they gave the negroes the right to vote, and that 
to make the thing complete the ballot should have been bestowed 
on the mules. 

I dwell somewhat at length on Uncle Dick's political views, 
because they have bearing on what follows. One afternoon a 
very prominent member of the Houston bar got into a discussion 
with Uncle Dick, during which the prominent lawyer so far for- 
got himself in the heat of argument as to take the stand that the 
negro had as much right from a legal point of view to vote as 
a white man. Uncle Dick was forced to reluctantly admit that 
perhaps that was true, but he stuck to his point that the law was 
a fool, or as Mr. Bumble puts it, "the law is a ass." The discus- 
sion attracted quite a crowd, for it was hot and animated and 
Uncle Dick punctuated his points by waving a big paper bag of 
eggs he held in his right hand. The lawyer had the best of the 
argument, of course, and that did not add to Uncle Dick's equi- 
librium. Finally Uncle Dick lost his temper, and when the 
lawyer drew emphatic attention to "negro rights" Uncle Dick 
lost his head and his bag of eggs at the same moment. Before 
anyone knew what ha was going to do, he smashed the lawyer 
full in the face with the bag of eggs. The bag and eggs broke 
and that dignified lawyer was turned into the worst scare-crow 
anyone ever saw. I had no idea until then that there was so 
much material in a bag of eggs. Of course the lawyer could not 
see nor hear, either, and before he could find his bearings, friends 
seized Uncle Dick and hurried him away. The lawyer swore 
vengeance and declared he would ehoot the old man on sight, but 
before they met again their friends patched the matter up and 



108 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

while never the best of friends after that, they managed to en- 
dure the presence of each other on the earth at the same time. 

Now, as I have said, when I read that newspaper paragraph, 
that egg fight came distinctly before me, and I could see that 
dignified lawyer clawing at his eyes and ears, with his fingers 
dripping egg all over everything. Uncle Dick was a warrior from 
away back yonder and everybody knew it. He used to publish 
editorials in the Age during a campaign that were so hot one 
wondered that they did not burn the paper. They were in pure 
United States language, too, and things were called by their 
names, or at least by names that Uncle Dick thought appropriate. 
One of those articles of his, if published in earnest today, would 
result in a million dollar libel suit if not in buckets of blood. I 
have said that he was a warrior, and such he was. I have seen 
him in one or two engagements, and in every one of them he 
forced the fighting. That was the strange part of it and I can't 
understand yet why a man who did so much as to arouse antag- 
onism and invite attack should always have to make the attack. 
Perhaps one reason was that everybody knew Uncle Dick was 
"fixed" for trouble and they did not care to become the aggres- 
sors. They would venture to "sass" him, but that was as far as 
they cared to go. 

Sometimes it makes me really hungry for the old times when 
I think of Uncle Dick and Uncle Dan McGary. There can never 
be two such characters as they in this community again. When 
it came to politics they had but one thought, one object in life, 
to save the country from the grasp of the "depraved Republican 
party." With them, any and everything was absolutely right 
that would result in downing the hated enemy. 

♦ * ♦ 

^'SEEING THINGS." 

IT is said that one-half of the world does not know how the 
other half lives, and it might be truthfully added that the 
one half does not know how the other half has lived. I 
was much struck with the truth of this one night when I heard 
two first-class stories and received at the same time two of the 
greatest surprises of my life through the confessions of the gen- 
tlemen who told.them. Both are prominent men, men of position 
and standing, and each has a host of friends, so I shall have to be 
careful in telling the stories, and, for obvious reasons, refrain 
from mentioning names. 

It was after a social meeting and we were getting ready to go 
home when some one suggested a round of drinks. Strange to 
say, there was not a gentleman present who indulged except the 
one who suggested the round. The temperance character of the 
crowd naturally led to a discussion of drinking and its results, 
when Billy, as I shall call the prominent merchant, led off by 
confessing that in his early days he had been a great drinker, 
and had gone the flmit. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 109 

"Why," said he, "I have actually had the jimmies, and you know 
that was going some. I got drunk and I could not get sober. I 
kept it up day after day and week after week, and finally I gave 
up trying to get sober and went in for the limit. One afternoon 
I went in the grocery store of one of my friends and insisted 
that he should go out and take a drink with me. He refused and 
said he had better whiskey in his store than we could get else- 
where and asked me to try it. Of course I agreed. I took a big 
drink and it made me so drunk that the merchant had me taken 
to a room on the second floor of his store, where one of his clerks 
slept. I don't remember much about getting in bed, but I do re- 
member about waking up. It was late in the evening when I 
awoke, and I was lying there wondering where I was when I 
heard a noise behind me, and turning over I saw the biggest 
skeleton anybody ever saw sitting on the bureau in front of the 
looking glass. He had a great big scythe in his hand and sat 
there grinning at me. You know all skeletons grin, but his grin 
was a different sort of thing; you could see he was enjoying the 
situation. In those days I was a bit profane, so I took a long 
look at him and asked him what in hell he wanted and what he 
was doing there. 

" 'Billy,' said he, very slowly and drawling, 'Billy,' said he, 'I 
am here after you and I am going to cut your head off.' Saying 
that he made one big jump, landed square across my chest, cut 
my head off with the scythe, and jumped back on the bureau 
again. 

"That made me good mad. I don't know how I did it, but I 
could see just as well without my head as I could with it, but all 
the same I wanted my head back. 'Look here,' I said to him, 
'you bring that head back here or I'll hurt you.' 'You can't hurt 
me,' he said. 'You make me laugh,' and with that he began to 
chuckle. It was the funniest chuckle you ever heard. It com- 
menced in his teeth and then dropped down into him and went 
rattling along his ribs and sounded like a boy scraping along a 
picket fence with a stick. I had my 45 with me and I lugged it 
out. 'Are you going to bring that head back?' I asked. The 
skeleton said nothing, but just sat there and grinned. I took 
good aim at his head and said: 'I am going to count three and 
when I finish, if my head's not back, I'm going to destroy you.' 
I commenced counting right slowly, 'one,' 'two,' 'three,' and I let 
him have it. I saw the looking-glass fly to pieces and I saw that 
I had missed him, so I pulled down on him again. When the 
smoke cleared off the skeleton was gone, but he had taken my 
head with him and I was in a worse fix than ever. I heard a 
noise back of me and there was the skeleton. He was trying to 
hide and I was trying to get a line on him when the crowd from 
downstairs broke into the room and grabbed me. They lugged 
me off to a hospital and the doctors finally pulled me through. 
That is the reason I don't drink. I have whiskey and that skele- 



no TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

ton too intimately associated together to enjoy the whiskey part 
of it." 

"That was a fine experience you had, major," said a retired 
ranch man, "and since you have told the story I will give a bit 
of my own experience in the same line." 

"I had been in Richmond for about two weeks enjoying myself 
with the boys. I had drunk lots of whiskey but had not eaten 
a thing. Finally I got so that I could not get any action at all 
out of whiskey. It would not make me drunk or do me any 
good at all except for a few minutes, when it would die out and I 
would have to fill up again. One of my friends was running a 
saloon, and upstairs over the saloon he had a faro layout and 
other fixtures, among them a billiard table. I was in his place 
one morning, feeling awful. I took four or five drinks and he 
persuaded me to go upstairs and lie down on the billiard table 
and try to get some sleep. It was a big room and was not 
sealed, having all the rafters bare. I lay down on the table 
and was thinking how much I would give to be sober so I 
could take a fresh start and enjoy myself with the boys, when 
I heard a scraping sound down at the end of the room on one 
of the rafters, and looking up I saw a big rattlesnake about 
fifteen feet long, trying to slip up on me without my knowing 
it. He'd creep along a little bit, slip, catch himself, and then 
begin it all over again. I got interested, and it aroused the 
sporting spirit in me, and I lay there betting, first that he would 
make it and then that he would not. He would stretch away 
out, get a good hold, and then try to draw himself forward, would 
slip, nearly fall, and catch himself. I got so interested that I 
did not realize that he was gaining all the time, and the first 
thing I knew he was right over me. Then he turned himself 
loose and did not try to catch himself. But I was too quick for 
him. By the time he hit the table I was half way down stairs, 
and the next moment I was across the sidewalk, heading for 
the other side of the street. 

"Just as I left the sidewalk a man riding a big black horse 
came charging down on me with a long sword in his hand. I 
realized somehow that he could not touch me so long as I was 
on the sidewalk and T made a dash for it and just got there 
in time. I also realized that I had to cross that street, so I 
waited until the fellow's back was turned and started again, but 
he whirled his horse and came near getting me. Then I waited 
until he got away off and made another dash, but he saw me out 
of the back of his head and I just barely reached the sidewalk 
in time. Then I made out I was going down the sidewalk, and 
as soon as his back was turned I made a quick dash, but he was 
there all right, and again I just barely saved myself. That 
made me mad and I started into the barroom to get a gun to 
do him up, when the saloon man and a number of my friends 
jumped on me and tied me. They sent for a doctor and for 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 111 

about three weeks I had a time of it. Like you, I associate 
whiskey with a snake and that fellow on a black horse. I have 
never taken a drink since and I never intend to take another." 



INTERVIEWING AN OLD-TIMER. 

DURING some years of active newspaper work, I have had, 
of course, some funny experiences, but I had one the 
other day that beat anything with which I had ever come 
in contact. I wanted some special information and sought one 
of my old-time friends to obtain it from him. Before I could 
ask a question, he asked me one and that set him going, with 
the following result: 

He asked me who was the editor of a certain paper published 
in Houston, and when I told him, truthfully, that I had never 
heard of the paper, he launched out as follows: 

"You are like Sarah Bernhardt. When some one asked her 
about Mrs. Potter, she said: 'Mrs. Pottair! I don't know there 
is an actress by such name as Pottair.' That was her way of 
ignoring all competitors. I'll tell you a good story about Sarah. 
You know what a great actress she is, but to my mind there 
used to be better than she in the French companies in New 
Orleans. Ah, those were fine days! I was in the telegraph 
business then. There was no Western Union then. It was the 
Washington and National, or something of that kind. Old 
Thompson was manager and he allowed us to send private mes- 
sages as much apd as often as we pleased. Old Thompson was 
a thoroughbred. He built the lines to Natchez and then he 
built the Red River line. Speaking of Red River, reminds me 
of a certain class of fools who you hear speaking of the 'Rio 
Grande River.' Wouldn't that jar you! They don't know that 
'Rio' means river. It's like a fellow I heard talking about hav- 
ing 'the la grippe.' There's another who don't know that 'la' 
means 'the' in French. But one thing gets on my nerves more 
than anything. That is the new word they have made to fix on 
a driver of an automobile — 'chauffeur'." 

Here I ventured to suggest that it was not a new word, but 
an old one, and meant a stoker, fireman, or something like 
that, but he would not listen to me, but went on. 

"They don't even know how to pronounce the word. Some 
say 'showfer,' some say 'chawfer,' while the proper way to say 
it is 'shaw-fer,' sorter lengthening out the 'fer' part. Do you 
catch it? 

"I pride myself on my French, for I learned it first from old 
Loui du Pies in New Orleans. There was a man for your money. 
As polite as a basket of chips, but always looking out for a fight, 
and never so happy as when he found one. I saw him clean out 
a barroom in New Orleans one night. I say barroom, but they 
call them 'coffee houses' over th^re, but I don't know why, for 



112 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

they never sell coffee in them. Loui always had half a dozen 
duels on hand after he had had his fun. Those duels in New 
Orleans are the same as the French duels. They go out and 
poke at each other with little swords that look like knitting 
needles, long drawn out. Finally one will stick the other through 
the skin of his arm and their honor is satisfied. Then they em- 
brace and go off somewhere to eat a good breakfast. 

One night a little Frenchman came in our office to send a 
telegram and got sassy about it. Old man Thompson called him 
down and started to kick him out of the door, but the chap was 
too quick for him and got away. In half an hour two young men, 
who said they were their friend's "witnesses," brought Thompson 
a challenge. The old man accepted it at once and told the 'wit- 
nesses' that since he was challenged he had the right to choose 
weapons and that he would take double-barrel shotguns, loaded 
with buckshot and fight at ten paces. 

"The 'witnesses' left, and we never saw any of them after 
that. The old man used to say that if his terms had been ac- 
cepted he would have been the one to leave. 

"I did see a sure enough duel over there, though. It was 
fought between a man named Williams and another named 
Sydnor. This Sydnor — I'll tell you about it — was a big planter. 
He owned one of the largest plantations in Mississippi. He was 
fine folk, too. He married a Guafney and one of his brothers 
was talked of for the Senate at once. He raised long staple 
cotton, which, you know, is the best in the world. I have often 
wondered why they don't try to raise more of it in Texas. There 
are lots of things the Texas farmers could raise if they would 
only realize that they can do so. Texas is certainly a great 
state. I have been living here for over 40 years and the longer 
I stay here the prouder I grow of the state. 

"By the way, I started to tell you a good joke. What was it 
about? Do you know?" 

I did know that it was about Sarah Bernhardt and I also knew 
that he had started to tell be about a real duel he had witnessed, 
but I had too much sense to refresh his memory, and made my 
escape. I realized that I had not gotten the information I 
wanted, but I concluded it were best to give that up and seek 
elsewhere, and thus escape having to listen to a condensed, 
though rather disjointed history of some one's life. 

The foregoing perhaps reads as if it were prepared for the 
occasion. It is an aboslutely correct report of what occurred and 
I have a good witness who will testify that it is correct. The 
worst part about it was that it was told very slowly and con- 
sumed nearly an hour in the telling. 

4. 4i 4. 

AN ALL-'ROUND NEWSPAPER MAN. 

I ONCE heard a public speaker who got his quotations mixed, 
declare in the most dramatic manner: "A rolling stone 
is the noblest work of God." If that be true then Wm, R. 
Sinclair has about as much nobility about him as one man can 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 113 

stand, for he has rolled a great deal during the 30 years I have 
known him. He has rolled from Houston to Dallas, from Dallas 
to Galveston, from Galveston to St. Louis and then back to Texas 
and begun his endless chain of rolling all over again. He is 
here in Houston now and says he is going to buy a home and 
settle down for good. I think he believes he is going to do so, 
too, but I do not. 

"Sin," as the boys love to call him, is well qualified to lead 
any life he chooses and to see as much of the world as he cares 
to see, and that too, on the easiest terms, for there is no better 
newspaper man in the country than he. One great advantage 
he has over most newspaper men is the fact that he is as fine a 
printer as newspaper writer. If there is no opening in the 
"brainery," he turns to the mechanical department, for he is as 
much at home in one as in the other. 

Twenty-five years ago Sinclair was considered to be the best 
telegraph editor in Texas. At that time the positon of telegraph 
editor was one of the most difficult and responsible on a news- 
paper. It is hard to realize that today when "copy" comes in 
typewritten on a clean white paper, with no abbreviations and 
all that has to be done is to read it, put on a suitable head, and 
send it to the composing room. In that day it was different. 
The copy was on flimsy tissue paper and was in skeleton form. 
Every word, not absolutely necessary to make sense, was left 
out and a dispatch of, say a column, frequently came in half 
that space and the telegraph editor had to fill in, straighten out 
and make it read sense. Sometimes the abbreviation was car- 
ried to such an extreme that it was difficult to make any sense 
out of the dispatch at all. Here is where Sinclair shone, for 
he could take a condensed story, rewrite it and turn out better 
copy than the original writer had produced. 

Sinclair was also a good reporter and all-'round man in the 
editorial room, and as he was always on deck and could be re- 
lied on, he was very useful. You notice that I speak of him in 
the past tense. I do that in deference to his announcement that 
he is going to quit and settle down, which, as I have said, I do 
not believe. 

In 1884 Sinclair and I were running the Houston Morning 
Chronicle. He was foreman of the composing room. He was 
then and is now an intense Democrat. When the dispatch came 
saying that Cleveland was elected president, it was about 2 
o'clock in the morning. Sinclair had come down after something 
and was in the editorial room. I showed him the dispatch. He 
seized my hat and broke for the market house, where the fire bell 
was located. Climbing the ladder that led to the tower where 
the bell was, he seized the rope and in a few moments had the 
whole town aroused. Captain Jack White, who was chief of 
police, could see no fire and concluded that a drunken or crazy 
man had gotten hold of the bell, and went up to investigate. 
When he got up there he found Sinclair. 



114 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"What are you doing with that bell? There's no fire any- 
where," he said. "You come with me." So saying he grabbed 
Sinclair by the collar. 

"Hold up, captain," said "Sin;" "Cleveland is elected." 

"Is he?" said the captain. "Give me that rope," and the two 
took hold and woke the town up some more. By the time they 
reached the sidewalk, after tiring themselves out, the whole 
town was in an uproar, for the news had spread and everybody 
was rejoicing. The captain invited "Sin" over to have a 
"snifter" and as they were taking it he looked at "Sin" and said: 

"Sinclair, if you have got the jimmies and have spread a false 
report, I'm going to lock you up in jail if it takes me a year to 
catch you." 

The news seemed too good to be true. 

During the whole thirty years I have known Sinclair I have 
never heard of his doing a small or mean thing. I am sure ex- 
Mayor John Browne will not say the same thing, for he holds 
different views and, perhaps, has reason for doing so. Some 
years ago Sinclair, while on the Post, got up his famous goat 
races. He had the whole town goat mad. Mayor Browne met 
him on the street one day and told him he would give him some 
goats if he would come after or send for them. Sinclair thanked 
him, and going to his office he put the following in the Post: 

NOTICE. 
"Any boy in Houston who wants a fine goat for nothing can 
get one by calling at Mayor Browne's residence this morning. 
As there are only a few goats, it will be first come, first served. 
The first boy there gets the pick." 

The next morning Mayor Browne thought every boy in Hous- 
ton had gone crazy. His yard was full of boys, the street was 
full and they kept coming. When he could get away he went 
gunning for Sinclair, but "Sin" hid out until the mayor's wrath 
had died down a bit. 

If Sinclair would only settle down and write his memoirs and 
tell of his journalistic experiences, it would make a most inter- 
esting book. He has seen both the tragic and humorous side 
of newspaper life and can tell his story well. 

To meet the quiet, affable gentleman that he is, for the first 
time one would never suspect that so youthful a man could be 
one of the oldest and most competent newspaper men in Texas, 
and yet Sinclair is all of that. I believe he has filled every 
position on a newspaper, from printer's devil to editor-in-chief, 
except that of society editor. I would not swear, however, that 
he has not tried his hand at that, too, on the sly. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 115 

FRANK LE MOTT'S POKER STORY. 

I MET Frank LeMott in the street the other day. He was 
either coming from the country or going there, I don't 
know which. He had the most mournful expression on his 
face when he greeted me, and he began at once to state his 
grievance: "That article you wrote about me being a reformed 
sport has injured me seriously. It has about destroyed my repu- 
tation as a citizen, and has done more than that, for it has 
caused me actual financial loss." Of course, I felt sorry and 
asked for particulars. 

"It's this way," said he, "I have been in the habit of stopping 
over at a little town in East Texas, and whenever I hit the town 
the sheriff, the judge and a few of the leading citizens would 
get busy and organize a 'little game' for my entertainment. That 
game was always to be depended on to increase my funds from 
$12 to $20, and I looked for it regularly. The other day I hit 
that town, and while they all seemed glad enough to see me, 
not one of them said a word about the 'little game.' I did not 
understand it until the next day when some one told me about 
that article in The Chronicle. It seems the paper beat me to 
the place, and my friends were afraid to sit in with me after 
reading what you wrote. 

"I have not seen the article yet," said he, "but it must have 
been awful, for I heard of it all over Texas. Everywhere I have 
been people have asked me about it." 

Then his manner changed, and nudging me in the ribs he said: 
"Tell them about Farmer Bill, about Old Fish and about Weston, 
and if you don't catch them I will eat my head." 

He was referring to three distinguished citizens of Texas, New 
Mexico and Arizona, who flourished in the early seventies and 
whose doings furnished Frank material for some of his best 
stories. 

One evening Frank and I were sitting on the gallery of the 
Surf Bathing House in Galveston when I asked him if gambling 
paid. He thought some time before he- answered and then said: 
"That's a hard question, for it has several sides to it and can 
be answered properly only after knowing which side of the table 
your man sits on if it's a bank game or how your man plays his 
hand if it's short cards. Off hand I would say that gambling 
does not pay, and yet I see no reason why a square man running 
a square game can't make good. He has all the advantage of 
making the other fellow do the guessing and to that must be 
added the legitimate percentage in favor of the bank. A sport 
like that who has a good game, has as sure a thing as a national 
bank, and if he sticks to business and does not go against some 
other sport's game, he is bound to get rich. 

"The best poker player I ever knew was a fellow named Wes- 
ton. He was a genius and could put the value on a set of threes, 
two pair or a bobtail quicker than any man I ever came across. 
It was an education to watch his play. He had ^real scientific 
poker sense and he won all the time. He wins at poker, but 



116 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

he can't keep away from faro bank and that game gets all his 
winnings. Of course, everybody has an explanation of how he 
wins all the time. They know his play is straight, for they 
watch him too closely for there to be any crooked work. They 
charge it up to luck and predict that it will change and run 
against him the same as it does with everybody else. But it 
doesn't and he continues to win. An old fellow named "Wagner 
puts out a theory that becomes very popular. It is that Weston 
is a mind reader and that when he is ruminating over his cards 
he is reviewing the minds of the gents who are sitting in with 
him and finding out what cards they hold. If he has kings up 
and finds aces in some gent's hand he goes to the discard, while 
if he finds his hand is the best he raises them out of their boots. 
Wagner cinches his theory by pointing out that when Weston 
goes against farobank the box ain't got any mind to read and 
that Weston stands to lose and does lose the same as anybody 
else. 

"Finally it gets so that nobody will sit in the game with Wes- 
ton. But he must play poker and he gits to going against the 
public poker games, where one man does all the dealing and any- 
body can sit in who has the price of a stack of chips. His luck, 
or mind-reading, follows him there and he continues to win. He 
would tote off a wad every night. Finally the fellows who were 
running the games got tired of it and concluded to put up a job 
on him. I Bad nothing to do with it, but they let me in to see 
the fun. The plan was to ring in a cold deck, give out four or 
five stiff hands and give Weston the next to the best one. When 
they mentioned it to me I suggested that Weston might not 
stand for a fiimflam and as he always toted a gun there might 
be trouble. They told me they were on to that and had provided 
against trouble by giving Donovan, a big Irishman, who acted as 
bouncer, a sawed off billiard cue and telling him to stand behind 
Weston's chair and if he reached for a gun to pacify him with 
the club. 

"That night Weston took his seat and placed a big roll of bills 
by the side of the chips he bought. The game opened and 
dragged along with no plays of any interest for some time. Then 
I saw Happy Jack shuffle the cards pretty fast, put them down 
like he was going to cut them and pick up a deck one of the 
house men had slipped near him, and I knew the play was on. 
Jack dealt out the hands and almost before he got through a 
little shoemaker, who was playing a five-dollar stack, opened the 
pot. A butcher, who is next to the shoemaker, raises and the 
next man, who is a booster, tilts her again. The next man just 
comes in. The play then reaches Weston. He comes in and 
boosts her a fifty-dollar bill. The next man hesitates a long 
time and then drops out. The next one, who is a booster, comes 
■ back at Weston with a hundred-dollar bill, after looking up at 
Jack. The shoemaker who had opened the pot shoved in what 
chips he had left and claimed a show for his money. The butcher 
quits. Then the first booster raised her $200 and the man be- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 117 

tween him and Weston quits reluctantly. This brings the play- 
back to Weston. He ruminates as usual for some time and then 
throws his whole bundle into the pot. Jack asks what is in 
her and Weston counts out four 100 and two 500-dollar bills. The 
last booster has only $300, but he shoves that in and claims a 
show for it. I saw one of the house men slip the first booster 
a big roll, and Weston saw it too. There's a big fuss about how 
much money the booster who wants a showdown has in the pot, 
and Weston pretends to take a heap of interest in what is going 
on at his left, though I see he is watching the right, too, and his 
letting the house man in on the play that way does not look good 
for the house to me. Still I know the hands are fixed and I con- 
strue it that Weston has a stiff hand he is willing to back on 
general principles; that he can't read the minds of the boosters 
because they are too excited, and that he is going on pure poker 
judgment, though I know, of course, that he is all wrong. 

"When the dispute is settled the first booster nearly breaks- 
his arm getting his wad in, and Weston is called for the whole 
pot. Then cards are drawn. Everybody takes one card except 
the shoemaker, who takes two, and Weston, who stands pat. All 
the money is up, so its a show-down all 'round. Donovan draws 
up so as to be in easy reach of Weston with his club, and every- 
body leans over to look at the hands. Then the two house men 
nearly faint and Jack turns green, for Weston shows down four 
aces and rakes in the pot. 

"Yes, sir; justice had miscarried. Jack had made a fatal mis- 
take and had given Weston the hand intended for the booster, 
who showed down four kings. 

"The house is broke. The two house men look at me and I 
look at them. I want to laugh, but I don't do it till I get out- 
side. Jack is scared nearly to death. Everybody looks foolish, 
but the worst looking man in the crowd is Donovan, who is trying 
to hide his club. 

"Next day the story gets out and old Wagner's theory about 
mind-reading falls flat. The chaps who back the luck argument 
win out easy." 

* * * 

FUN AT THE FAIR GROUNDS. 

I THINK it was at the state fair that was held in Houston in 
1871 or 1872, I forget which, that one of the funniest sights 
I ever witnessed occurred. 
At that time there was a very prominent physician here, who 
had been a lawyer before studying medicine and who was one of 
the finest speakers I ever heard. He could make a speech at any 
time on any subject, and when he got about half loaded he was 
very eloquent. He delighted to hear his own voice and never 
missed an opportunity to give himself a treat in that way. I tell 
this because it has bearing on what occurred. 



118 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

That year Colonel James, who had charge of the military 
school at Austin, brought the cadets down to the fair. There 
were several hundred of them and they made a fine appearance. 
Major Brokenbourough, who was the military instructor at the 
school, had command of the battalion. He and I had been col- 
lege mates in Virginia and I was delighted to meet him again. 
His father was Judge Brokenbourough, one of the most distin- 
guished lawyers in Virginia. While the major and I were talk- 
ing, my friend, the doctor, came up and I introduced him to the 
major. The doctor was loaded just right, and was very effusive. 
"Is it possible," he said, shaking the major's hand, "that I grasp 
the hand of a son of my old and esteemed friend, Judge Broken- 
bourough, of Virginia?" Now, as a matter of fact, I don't be- 
lieve the doctor had ever heard of the judge until I mentioned 
the fact that he was the major's father, but he made the play 
all right and created the impression on the major's mind that he 
and his father had been raised together. 

"This occasion," said he, "deserves to be commemorated. 
Coma and take a glass of wine with me." 

He led us over to a stand and ordered a quart bottle of cham- 
pagne. The major protested against such extravagance and 
declared he would rather have a glass of beer, but tbe doctor 
would not listen to him and the champagne was opened. Just 
then a band nearby began playing and the wine and music com- 
bined to make the doctor feel awfully good and talkative. 

There was to be a grand parade of the cadets at 4 o'clock and 
as it was near that hour the major tried to excuse himself so 
as to go and get ready. Then a happy thought occurred to the 
doctor. He told the major he would like to make the boys a 
talk. The major thought it was merely a passing whim and 
made some casual remark about being most happy to hear it and 
things of that kind. The doctor insisted and then the major 
told him he would go and get Colonel James' permission. Now, 
had the major known the doctor as well as I did, he would have 
gone to the colonel and secured his permission, for the talk 
would have been a good one. As it was, thinking that the doctor 
would forget all about it after taking the next drink, instead of 
going to Colonel James he went direct to where the cadets were 
and commenced preparing them for the parade. The parade 
and drill were to take place on the race track in front of the 
grand-stand, so, taking my arm, the doctor led me out there and 
took up his position where the colonel generally stands during 
a dress parade. Major Brokenbourough was busily engaged in 
forming his battalion across the track. The grand-stand was 
crowded with ladies, the band was playing and the doctor was 
absolutely in the seventh heaven of delight. He was feeling 
mighty good. He took off his hat and the wind blew his long 
hair about and he evidently felt like a war horse about to charge. 
The charge was there all right, but it was to come from the other 
side. After a little while Colonel James showed up on a fine, 
prancing horse. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 119 

If he noticed the doctor and me standing there he said nothing, 
but, drawing his sword, he took command of the battalion, which 
the major had formed. For the benefit of the ladies he put the 
boys through the manual of arms and then gave the order: "Fix 
bayonets." His next order was "Charge bayonets," and then 
"Forward, quick time, march." I saw what was coming and de- 
serted the doctor at once, getting away on one side. The doctor 
thought that the colonel was bringing his battalion up closer, 
so the boys could hear his speech, so he stood his ground with 
his head thrown back and his nostrils distended. He was in his 
glory. Some soldiers to talk to, a fine brass band playing and 
thousands of pretty women to hear him talk. He held his hat 
in his hand and the wind was scattering his long hair about in 
the most charming manner. 

In the meantime that solid wall of bayonets was sweeping 
down on him. I was off on one side in a safe position where I 
could watch him and see the expression on his face. When the 
battalion reached a point about thirty feet away and continued 
to advance, a troubled and surprised look came over his face. 
The next moment he realized that there had been a blunder com- 
mitted and that he was in a tight place. People began to shout 
to him to get awaj while he could. At last he realized the truth, 
but it was too fette to reach the end of the line and escape that 
way. He realized that and did not try it. He slapped his hat 
on his head and turning his back to the advancing troops bent 
over and awaited them. There was a sudden break in the line, 
the ranks parted on each side and the doctor emerged, tail fore- 
most, from the confused mass. The grand-stand gave vent to a 
mighty shout and the doctor straightened up and came over to 
where I was rolling all over the ground, half dead with laughter. 
He was so angry he could scarcely talk. 

•"Where is that ." said he, referring to the son 

of his "old and highly esteemed friend." "Get up. I want you 
to take my card to him. He must answer to me for this outrage. 
He must have been drunker than I thought, for evidently James 
knew nothing of why I was out there." 

I had hard work to keep him from attacking the battalion 
right there so as to get at the major, who was hopping along 
before the girls and entirely oblivious to the proximity of the 
great volcano he had stirred up. Finally I got the doctor to wait 
until he got to town, where he could draw up the challenge in 
regular form, which I promised I would take to the major. 

After another drink, the doctor's mood changed. "I find myself 
in a nasty position," he said, "I can't make up my mind to kill 
the son of my old friend and comrade-in-arms, for his father and 
I served together in the Army of Northern Virginia. The boy 
deserves killing, of course, for he has made a monkey of his 
father's most intimate friend, but then he is only a thoughtless 
boy. I might execute James, but that would be unjust, for he 
knew nothing of what he was doing. What do you advise?". 



120 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Of course I told him I would drop the subject and never think 
of it again. 

That night the cadets left for home and the major left with 
them and left in absolute ignorance of the terrible fate that 
came so near overtaking him. 



FRANK LA MOTT'S STORY. 

ONE day I was sitting out in front of the old Gray Front 
Saloon in San Angelo, smoking a cigarette," said Frank 
La Mott, "when I saw a little old dried-up looking chap 
ride up on a dilapidated broncho, and recognized 'Old Fish.' 
Now, 'Old Fish' did not get his name from having been named 
Fisher or anything like that, but he got it in a queer way. 

"One night a crowd of cowboys found him all spraddled out in 
the middle of a trail over in Arizona. He was flat on his belly 
and was moving his arms slowly up and down and waving his 
feet about as if he were swimming. The boys hails him and asks 
for information: 'Don't muddy the water, boys. I'm a fish,' he 
said. He had the jimmies and thought he was a fish. The boys 
toted him to a doctor and he got rid of the jimmies, but he did 
not get rid of the name and from that time everybody calls him 
'Fish." 

"I hated to see him coming for I knew how trifling and no 
'count he was. He could drink more whiskey than any man I 
ever came in contact with, and it took more of it to get him 
drunk, but when he did get drunk he would be drunk all over. 
I knew he would prove to be a great nuisance, and I hated to 
see him, as I say. A man named Riley is keeping the big faro 
bank and owns the Gray Front, which I have told you before 
was the big thing in San Angelo. Riley being the big saloon 
man and big gambler has acquired big standing as a citizen and 
is eminently respectable, therefore it makes me laugh when Fish 
rushes up to him and shakes hands with him and gives it out 
right and left that he and Riley was partners out in Arizona. 
Fish was sober, but Riley and I knew that he would not stay 
that way long, and that when Fish got drunk it would lower 
anybody's standing who recognized him as an old friend and 
partner. 

"Well, Riley shook hands with him and pretended to be mighty 
glad to see him, but he wasn't. He asks all hands to the bar 
and introduced old Fish and then slipped away. Fish acts 
pretty good for a few days, not that he don't drink lots of whis- 
key, for he does. But he is one of those accumulative drunkards 
who has to lay a big foundation for what's coming. A week 
passes and Fish ain't drunk yet. Riley sees him drinking all 
the time and can't understand it. Finally he concludes Fish 
has discovered some system by which he can drink all he wants 
without getting drunk and lets it go at that. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 12I 

"It comes at last, just as Riley knew it was coming, and Fish 
strikes him for a stake. 

" 'Look here,' says Riley, 'I've been watching you and I think 
I can trust you to make your own stake. I won't give you money 
for whiskey, but I'll stake you for a monte game against these 
Mexican pikers.' 

"Riley does it, and when he does so he makes Fergerson who 
runs the regular monte game, mad, for Fergerson can't stand 
Mexicans around him. 

"Riley gives him a place for his table and stakes him for about 

$40. Fish is happy and the Mexicans are happy, but Fergerson 

IS mad plumb through. The first night Fish blows the whole 

bank roll in at the bar before Riley finds out what he is doing 

When Riley comes in and finds what Fish is doing he kicks him 

out in the street and chases the Mexicans out, too. Fish is in 

a bad fix. His money and loafing place are both gone, so he 

takes up at a low dive where Mexicans are treated the same 

as folks. In about a week they get tired of him there and chase 

him and he is in for good. Fish finally takes up with a tinhorn 

gambler who lets him sleep in his room, but they ain't got no 

money for whiskey, so Fish gets sober. He comes whining to 

Riley and strikes him for enough money to buy a coat Riley 

sees how ragged he is and feels sorry for him so gives him the 

money. Instead of getting the coat he buys a couple of gallons 

of whiskey and he and his tinhorn friend set in for a good 

drunk. Finally the whiskey gives out and Fish don't know what 

to do. He comes to Riley and fairly slobbers for help Riley 

won't listen to him and tells him he better go off somewhere and 

die. Fish don't get mad. What Riley says to him about dying 

puts an Idea in his head. 'Look here,' he says to Riley 'That's 

a good point you makes. Suppose I just makes out I dies won't 

that turn the trick?" 

"Fish gets close to Riley and says: 'Supposing I make out 
Im dead. Then you collect funeral expenses from the boys 
You km bury a box, give me the funeral expenses and I kin skin 
out of town.' 

"Riley falls for it at once. He sees a chance to get rid of 
Fish and at the same time make the boys pay nearly all the 
expenses. He tells Fish to come up to his place and talk it 
over. They do talk it over and then Riley and Doc. Matchet 
have a talk. 

"The next evening Fish comes in Riley's place and he don't 
look good, either. He is feeling bad sure enough, for he is 
needing whiskey bad. Riley gives him a couple of scoops and 
some of the boys throw other drinks into him. After he gets 
to looking so much better that nobody notices him particular and 
]ust when everybody forgets he's there, he throws up his hands 
jerks up one leg. falls down on the floor and goes off in about 
twenty fits to the minute. You've seen chickens with their heads 
cut off. Well, they ain't deuce high to the capers Fish cut up 
Finally he subsides a little and Doc. Matchet and Riley makes 



122 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

a landing on him and lugs him into a room where Riley has a 
bed. Riley tells me to stay and help hold Fish and then sends 
everybody else out of the room. Soon as they are gone Fish 
sits up in bed and demands a drink. I'm astonished to see Fish 
get well so soon, but Riley tells me what's doing and asked me 
to help him. We got a lot of chalk and rubbed Fish's face with 
it. We pulls his clothes off and lays him out like sure enough 
dead folks. The Doc. goes out to get a drink and tells the boys 
that Fish is playing nothing but white chips and ain't got more 
than a half stack of them left. In a little while he goes out 
again and announces that Fish has lost his stack and backed off 
from the table for good. 

"It's pretty near dark now and we are having some trouble 
with Fish, who wants more whiskey. Finally we give him a big 
drink and laying him out again, we invites the boys in to view 
the remainders. Everybody comes except Fergerson, who stays 
away and sends in word that he's glad the dead-beat, old bum 
is dead. After the review is over Riley goes out to the bar and 
starts a subscription to bury Fish. He heads it and in no time 
he has over a hundred dollars put down. Fergerson puts down 
for ten dollars and tells Riley he will pay next day. All the rest 
is cash. 

"Riley brings the list in and shows it to Fish to let him see 
how anxious the boys are to bury him. Fish takes the list and 
reads it carefully. When he comes to Fergerson's name and 
sees it not marked paid, he raises a row. 'You can bet your 
sweet life that ground hog can't git no credit from me; I want 
the cash and I want it right now. He can't git no credit on my 
funeral.' 

"Riley argues with him but it does no good. Finally Riley got 
mad and told him what Fergerson said about him and how glad 
he was when he heard he was dead. That makes Fish wild and 
he swears if he don't get that cash he will go out and whip 
Fergerson if it breaks up the funeral. Fish demands more whis- 
key. Riley gives it to him to keep him quiet, though he is afraid 
Fish will be too drunk to get away when the time comes. 

"After awhile Fish gets quiet and Riley says he will go out 
and get a box to bury Fish in. He leaves me with Fish and cau- 
tions me to keep the door locked. As soon as he is gone Fish 
commences again. He is still thinking about Fergerson and 
can't get over the idea of his wanting credit on his funeral, and 
then abusing the deceased behind his back. He cusses Ferger- 
son and then demands more whiskey. I argued with him and 
tried to show him that if he got drunk he would bust the funeral 
and then the boys would take back their money and run him 
out of town dead broke. That stopped him for a time, but not 
for long, for he came back demanding more whiskey. I saw 
there was no way out of it so after swearing him to keep quiet 
I slipped out to get a small bottle. He cusses Fergerson real 
good and hard as I go out, but stretches out in bed like he was 
dead. I walked out looking as solemn as I could and called for 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 123 

a drink. There is a big crowd there and everybody wants to 
hear how Fish cashes in. I am right in the middle of my tale, 
and I admit it has taken more time to tell it than I had calcu- 
lated when the barkeep, who is setting out the bug juice for 
another round, gives one look over my shoulder, jumps over the 
counter and goes out of the front door like a prairie on fire The 
crowd looks where the barkeep was looking and before l" know 
whats domg I'm alone. I turns around and if I don't know that 
Fish IS alive I'm here to tell you that I would have gone after 
the crowd too. Fish was standing in the door and had the sheet 
drawn all around him. His face was white like a dead man and 
having so much whiskey in him made him wabbly in the legs 
lUst like a dead man who has just stood up out of his grave It 
sure was a scary sight. Before I could do anything Fish turned 
off and made straight for the back room, where Fergerson was 
dealing monte. The room was pretty full and when Fish butts 
in nobody looks around, thinking its only some of the boys com- 
ing in to buck the game. 

"Fish gets right in the middle of the room bafore anybody sees 
him. Then a Mexican looks round and instantly climbs over 

^2Z T '"" '"''''' °' ^'"^ ^^^ ^^"^« ^^S^<^ °^ Fergerson's monte 
table. ^ Fergerson rises to squash the Mexican and sees Fish 
There s a window back of where Fergerson was sitting and he 
goes out Of it backward. He is in such a hurry that he don t 

Fish nnThPl, r i"T- "^'^ "''^"^ '°^^ ^^^ '"^^ ^^-i^-l^^ «ee 
Tt thp^L • ^^^'"V"'''"- '^^^^ ^" *^^ t° ^«t «"t the Window 
aMhe same time and naturally tear the whole side of the house 

hn"^H ^^ i"?,"" *^^ '^'^^^ ^^'^ ^ ^*'^ ^^ay a°d comes in his 
buckboard like a streak of lightning, for he guesses something 
has taken place. When he gets there he finds nobody but me 
and Fish. I am on the floor laughing, while Fish is behind the 
bar helping himself to a big drink out of a bottle. Riley don't 
ask for explanations. He grabs Fish, throws him on his buck- 
board and hurries away with him. He told me afterward that 
he gave a Mexican he could trust $20 to take him to the next 

d r .r^^'i^""^ ^"^ ^^^P ^°*"^ '^ ^^ ^^^t^<i to keep from being 
nung by the boys. 

"Riley explained to the boys that it must have been a case 
of revived mortality.' and that Fish must have wandered off and 
been eaten up by wolves. Of course, he gave Fish some money 
to live on and he gave the money back to the boys that they 
had put up to bury him with, so instead of getting rid of Fish 
cheaply, as he calculated, it cost him a good deal. Fish wandered 
around and died in San Antonio a few years ago. The funny 
thmg was that when he died sure enough and the boys were 
chipping in to bury him. Fergerson examined him carefully be- 
fore he would subscribe a cent. When he found Fish was really 
dead he doubled his subscription, he was so glad " 



124 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

A FAMOUS DEER HUNT. 

FORMERLY, in the good old days of the seventies, there was 
a much more intimate association between the drummers 
and the citizens of the small cities and towns than exists 
now. At that time every drummer who traveled in this terri- 
tory was as well known to everybody as the residents of the 
towns, and met with both a personal and professional welcome 
wherever he went. I suspect that there is something of the kind 
prevalent today, but it is not so widespread and general as it 
was then. The drummers have become more keenly alert to the 
business side of their calling and attach less importance to its 
social side, while the small towns have become more dignified 
and are striving to put on city airs. 

The drummer who could tell the best and latest stories or 
work off a good practical joke was very popular everywhere, 
while the citizen who worked off anything good on a drummer 
became famous at once and was the talk of the whole country. 

There was one well known drummer who was famous for his 
practical jokes and equally famous for his ability to dodge 
every trap that was set for him. From Houston to San An- 
tonio there was not a practical joker who did not lie awake at 
night trying to devise some scheme to catch that fellow. He 
was finally landed, or rather he landed himself by taking serious- 
ly a joking remark made by Colonel McCarthy of Eagle Lake. 
The colonel was a great sportsman and spent his time hunting 
and fishing. It was hard to say whether he was the king fisher 
or the king hunter, he was so good at both. He rarely went 
hunting that he did not come home with a fine deer or other 
big game, while his friends used to say that he could actually 
catch fish on dry land where there were no fish. 

His constant and never-failing success as a hunter excited sus- 
picion that he had some secret charm or something of that sort 
which gave him an advantage over the ordinary hunter. One 
day the colonel drove into town in his hunting wagon having 
two large bucks prominently displayed. Just as he passed the 
depot the train arrived and our drummer got off. He was de- 
lighted to see such fine game and asked a thousand questions 
about how and where the colonel had killed them. The colonel 
made no secret of where he had killed them, but he was less 
communicative about how he had done so. The drummer in- 
sisted on knowing, so, finally, the colonel, never dreaming that 
he would be taken so seriously, agreed to tell him, provided he 
would never reveal it to any one. 

"If it got out," said the colonel, "there would be no deer left, 
for it is so simple that even the boys can work it, and the deer 
would be exterminated." The drummer swore by everything holy, 
and unholy, too, that he would never tell, so the colonel gave him 
the great secret. 

"You must know," said he, "that deer have more curiosity 
than any of the wild animals. They will run away from anything 
that scares them, but if there is anything mysterious about it 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 125 

they will come back to investigate. Now, I get my deer by tak- 
ing advantage of that peculiarity they have. I drive a very 
gentle horse, as you know— one that will stand and keep quiet 
no matter where I leave him. I go out on the prairie and when 
I see deer I drive up as close as I can, then sit perfectly still 
until they go to feeding again if they have noticed me, and 
then I slip out, get behind the wagon and pull off every stitch 
of clothes I have on. Then I get down on my all-fours and back 
up to the deer. Never go head first, for a deer will recognize 
you at once and light out. Be careful not to show your head 
at all. You must take plenty of time, move slowly, and you will 
be surprised to find how close you can back up on a herd of 
deer." 

Now all that sounded right to the drummer. He had often 
heard of the curiosity of deer and the colonel's plan was very 
much in line with other plans of which he had heard. He said 
nothing to the colonel about it but he made up his mind to try 
his hand at the new scheme the very next day. He hired a two- 
horse rig from the stable, got his gun and slipped off all alone • 
before daylight the next morning. About six miles out he dis- 
covered a bunch of deer. He followed directions to the letter, 
and though the deer gave no indications of having seen him he 
waited some time before getting out of the wagon to strip him- 
self. Finally he got out, went behind the wagon and was soon 
in the condition that he was when he entered the world. 

The next thing he did, after carefully placing his clothes in 
the wagon, was to get down and begin backing on the deer 
who were almost a mile away. He had a tough time of it with 
hard clods and tough pieces of grass, but he was so excited 
and elated at the idea of killing a deer that he did not mind 
the hardships. He crawled and crawled, or rather he backed 
and backed for a long time, keeping the general direction of 
the deer by guess work. Finally he ventured to take a peep 
The deer were gone. He took a good look and could see them 
nowhere. Then he looked back to the place he had left the 
wagon, but could see no wagon either. Then it dawned on him 
that the deer had seen him and had left for parts unknown and 
that the horses not seeing him had left for home and had taken 
every stitch of his clothes with them. There he was, six miles 
from home, as naked as a picked bird and no way to get home 
without creating a riot, except by waiting until it got dark. 

The horses trotted quietly back to Eagle Lake and went to 
their stable. When the drummer's clothes were found in the 
wagon the people, naturally, supposed that he had gone in bath- 
ing and been drowned. Searching parties organized and soon 
the whole town turned out searching for the dead man. They 
searched the prairie, dragged the ponds and searched the river 
The drummer, who knew nothing about what they were after 
saw them and took good care that they should not see him' 
for every time they started in his direction he hid himself' 
That continued all day and towards night the search was aban- 



126 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

doned and the people returned home. They mourned for the 
drummer as for one dead. About midnight they heard shrieks 
coming from the back of the hotel and on rushing there found 
a half crazy negro stable boy who swore that he had seen a 
ghost. Investigation resulted in finding a very naked and half 
dead drummer hiding in the horse lot. He had attempted to 
get into the back door of the hotel but unfortunately ran across 
the stable boy. In a few minutes the story was all over town 
and the drummer left town on the first freight train that passed 
without waiting to kill Colonel McCarthy as he had sworn to 
do more than a hundred times that day. 



EARLY HOUSTON DOCTORS. 

AS old "Uncle Remus" used to say to the "Little Boy" 
when he began one of his stories, "This ain't no tale." 
It is merely writing down some memories that came to 
me the other day when Judge J. K. P. Gillaspie allowed me to 
look over an old court record that belonged to Judge Andrews, 
one of Houston's early justices of the peace. The record is for 
the year 1859, and aside from the memories evoked by reading 
the names of those who had business in the court, it has no 
great value. There is the usual number of disorderly conducts, 
breaches of the peace and suits for small debts. One feature 
that stands out prominently is the number of suits filed against 
delinquent patients by the doctors of that day. 

Now in reading over those old names I find something en- 
tirely foreign to the court and its record connected with nearly 
every one of them. The personality of the actors appears vivid- 
ly before me, and when I read that Dr. W. H. Howard is suing 
Mr. Blank for $25 for medical attention I do not think of the 
suit at all, but of Dr. Howard and of his ways and doings. The 
doctor was one of the leading physicians of Houston, for years. 
He was a man of profound learning and one of the best equipped 
physicians of his day. His great and leading characteristics 
were absolute loyalty to his friends and his detestation of 
shams and frauds. .He had the courage of his convictions and 
was always willing to back up his opinions. He was a large 
man, had injured his knee, which resulted in making it stiff, and 
always carried a heavy walking stick. His size and that stick 
generally combined to bring him out winner in every combat 
he entered. It may be said here that only strangers ever 
tackled the doctor, for his combative nature was too well under- 
stood by those who knew him to allow them to make the mis- 
take of "riling him." Personally, I never saw the doctor in 
but one engagement, but that was a good one and might have 
been a record one but for our interference. Of course, it was 
with another doctor and occurred during a consultation of phy- 
sicians over a case of supposed yellow fever. That was an occa- 
sion that afforded lots of amusement outside the fight. Yellow 
fever was dreaded by everybody and by none more than by the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 127 

merchants, because it put a stop to all business, of course The 
old citizens, "yellow fever nurses," they styled themselves, took 
about as much dish in an investigation of the kind that we 
were making as the doctors themselves. Dr. Howard was con- 
tending that the case was a genuine one, but one of the doc- 
tors, who had a vast amount of book knowledge about yellow 
fever and no practical knowledge at all, was contending that 
there was a doubt. That led to the fight, finally but before 
It started a funny thing occurred. 

One of the old and eminently respected citizens butted right 
in the sick man's room and reappeared in a few moments 
with his head thrown back, "sniffing" briskly. "That's no yel- 
low fever," he declared, positively. "The hell you say," said 
Dr. Howard. "How can you tell so easily?" 

"Why, by the smell, of course. Come in here and take a sniff 
and you can tell it yourself." 

"I'm no hound dog to go round sniffing for yellow fever " the 
doctor retorted, hotly. 

They had some words, and the doctor ended by telling him 
he not only knew nothing about the case, but that he doubted 
If he had sense enough to give a sick man a glass of water 

"Why, doctor, you are certainly not in earnest in making such 
a statement as that," said the gentleman. The doctor told him 
that he certainly was and asked him how he would do it 

"I would get a clean goblet, go to the cistern, pump the water 
a long time until it was cool, then I would place my left hand 
under the man's pillow, raise his head gently and give him the 
water. 

Here the doctor broke in: "I knew you would do some fool 
thing like that when I asked you. Your goblet, with its long 
stem and broad base, would spill all the water out of the glass 
before a drop of it reached the patient's mouth " 

Then Dr. Howard turned his back on the citizen and re- 
newed the discussion that ended in the fight. I may say here 
that the patient was on Dr. Howard's side, for soon he began 
to throw up black vomit and after his death the autopsy re- 
vealed a genuine case of yellow fever. 

_ The doctor was loyalty itself and would wade through fire 
in the interest of a friend. He, Dr. W. D. Robinson, Dr L A 
Bryan, Dr. George McDonnel and I, am proud to add, myself 
were very intimate friends. We all had offices, of course, but 
Conhefs drug store was headquarters and a general loafing 
place. Conhef had a number of slates with our names painted 
on them hung on the wall near the front door. Any one wanting 
one of us would leave his order on the slates. One hot summer 
day Dr. Bryan and I were sitting near the door when Dr How- 
ard drove up in his buggy. He called to Dr. Bryan and "asked 
him to look and see if there was anything on his slate. Dr 
Bryan did look and then answered in the affirmative. Dr How- 
ard commenced getting out of the buggy to come in and read it 
when It occurred to him that Dr. Bryan could do it for him He 



128 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

was halfway out, but halted and asked Dr. Bryan to read it. "I 
can't do that," answered the doctor. "Why not?" asked Dr. 
Howard. "Because it is nothing but a fly," said Dr. Bryan. Dr. 
Howard climbed back in his buggy and drove away in deep 
silence. 

Here, on another page of this old book, I find where Dr. W. 
D. Robinson was suing some fellow. The chap must have been 
a hard case to drive Dr. Robinson to do anything of that kind, 
for a better hearted, more generous and charitable man never 
lived than he. He was the "family physician" of Houston for 
many, many years, and was the friend and confidant of more 
people than any priest who ever lived here. He was a very 
handsome man, warm hearted and generous, and was beloved 
by everybody. His practice was very large and he did more 
charity practice than any two or three doctors in the city. He 
told me a funny story once that will bear repeating. He said 
that when he first came to Houston he had had but little ex- 
perience as a doctor and was very modest and retiring. On one 
occasion he attended a Mexican circus that was performing here. 
One of the actors fell from a high bar and sustained serious 
injuries. A call was made for a doctor. Robinson kept his 
seat, hoping that some other doctor was present and would take 
the case. None did so, and he finally got up and went forward. 
He said the man was stunned, so he got out his pocket case 
and prepared to bleed him right there. Just as he was about 
ready he heard a voice asking him what he was going to do. He 
looked around and saw Dr. Ashbel Smith, whom someone had 
sent for. 

"I am going to bleed him," said Dr. Robinson. 

"Did anyone hear you say you were going to do that?" Dr. 
Smith asked. 

"Well, it is the wrong thing to do," whispered Dr. Smith; "but 
if anyone heard you, go ahead and bleed him, if it kills him." 

Dr. Robinson bled him and he did not die after all. 

Now, as a fine accompaniment to the suits of these two doc- 
tors, I find one filed by Mr. Pannel, the great undertaker, of 
whom I have spoken before. The suit is evidently for money 
due him for putting away some of the doctors' work, as he used 
to say. Old man Pannel was a great character. On one occa- 
sion the doctors got up a big hunt over on the San Jacinto. 
They asked Pannel to go, but he would not consent until he 
secured the promise of every doctor in the city to go. Every 
one promised, but at the last moment Pannel showed up and 
announced that he could not go, because Dr. Robinson had a 
case and he knew his services would be needed before he could 
get back. An investigation revealed the fact that Dr. Robinson 
did have a case, so he and Pannel were left behind. 

Now, I don't know that one word of all this will be interesting 
to the readers of The Chronicle. All of it is interesting to me, 
though, and I think some of it will interest some of the older 
people who knew all the people I have mentioned. When Judge 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 129 

Andrews was making those formal entries in this little leather- 
bound book he little dreamed to what use they would be put 
over half a century after they were written. They have served 
the purpose today of carrying me back to a day when some of 
the greatest men of Houston tread the boards, and the experi- 
ence has been very pleasant. 



HANTS AND HOODOOS. 

I WAS amused when I read in the papers the other day 
about the negroes being so frightened by the report that 
the "Axe Man" had reached Houston and was looking over 
the field before beginning his destructive work here. The de- 
scription of how the negroes were using charms to ward off the 
disaster, which they feared was pending, was peculiarly amusing 
to me because I recognized that the negro of today is the same 
as the negro of my boyhood days. They are better educated, 
of course, but you can't educate superstition and the belief in 
charms out of a negro, and it is useless to try. "Hants," "hoo- 
doos" and "spirits" are just as potent today as they have ever 
been with the negroes. 

When I was a boy I had as implicit faith in the reality of 
ghosts as I had in anything, notwithstanding the fact that I was 
born a Doubting Thomas. The negroes taught me all kinds of 
nonsense and I became as superstitious as they. I was not 
alone in this for my state was common to all boys raised in the 
South among the negroes. I would no more dream of going in 
swimming without a string tied round my ankle to ward off 
cramps or to allow another boy to stunt my growth by stepping 
over me while I was lying down than I would have thought of 
jumping off the highest building in town. All three would prove 
fatal and I knew it. 

Ghosts, however, were our strong points. Graveyards were 
shunned, even after early twilight, and after dark no boy would 
venture near one alone for anything. One of the greatest panics 
I ever was mixed up in was caused by this universal fear of 
ghosts. Four or five of us had been out hunting up Buffalo 
Bayou beyond the old San Felipe graveyard. We had stayed 
longer than we intended and it was quite dark when we came 
down the road by the side of the cemetery. Each boy recognized 
the dangerous position we were in, but not the slightest reference 
was made to the graveyard. We walked along boldly, each 
trying to get as far away from the cemetery fence as he could 
without attracting especial attention to what he was doing. 
There were several negro boys with us, for in that day no hunt- 
ing party was complete unless there were as many negro boys 
as white ones. These negroes were frankly afraid and did not 
try to disguise the fact that they were shunning that fence. We 
talked loudly about everything we could think of except ghosts, 
though each boy knew that these latter were on each boy's mind 



130 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

and most prominently so, too. The real trouble was that none 
of the boys wanted a stampede, through fear of being left alone 
behind or of getting too far ahead and thus finding himself alone 
there. 

All went well until about half of our perilous journey had been 
made. Then inside the graveyard a great white object was 
seen to rise up and the only boys left on the scene were those 
who had not seen it. Be it said to their credit, however, that 
they asked no questions and started after their more fortunate 
companions at a breakneck speed. It was only a newspaper 
in which some one who had carried flowers out there had thrown 
aside, but had it been a devil with ten horns it could not have 
been more potent in starting that crowd. We did not stop until 
we reached town and then we halted only because we were out 
of breath. That was quickest time ever made over that old 
San Felipe road and that piece of newspaper was responsible 
for our getting home much sooner than we otherwise would 
have gotten there. The other day I read a story of a negro 
who had been left in a haunted house with a bottle of whiskey 
and the promise that he would be given $5 the next morning 
if he remained there all night. About midnight something hap- 
pened and the negro promptly tore out the front side of the 
house and left. Four days after he was seen coming up the 
road. "Where have you been?" asked one of the fellows who 
had hired him to stay in the house. "Why, boss," the negro 
replied, "I been comin' back." That was our fix exactly. We 
reached our goal so quickly that getting there did not count 
at all. 

But the negroes' strongest belief was, and is yet, centered in 
the hoodoo and they fear a hoodoo negro worse than they fear 
the devil himself. It is somewhat remarkable that they are 
prepared to believe in hoodoo white men as well as hoodoo ne- 
gro men. 

I remember a laughable instance of this kind of faith on their 
part. A friend of mine had a cook who was absolutely no cook 
at aii, but his wife liked something about her and would not 
consent to her being discharged. My friend was in despair, but 
finally thought of a plan for getting rid of her. He acted mys- 
teriously and when she was in hearing he would mumble non- 
sense and repeat a kind of jargon in a low tone. This bore 
fruit and she began to watch his every movement with evident 
suspicion. One day he saw her go in her room, which was in 
the back yard, and he could see that she was watching him 
through a crack in the door. He slipped up and made a mark 
on the steps with a piece of red chalk. When she came out 
she avoided that mark as though it were a snake and she poured 
hot ashes and lye all over it. My friend, a few days later, saw 
her go into her room again and take a position from which she 
could watch him. He had prepared himself for just such a 
situation. He slipped up and placed a small package, done up 
in red flannel, under the steps and crept cautiously away. He 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 131 

waited to see what the cook would do, but he waited in vain. He 
saw nothing of her. Finally his wife wanted her for some pur- 
pose and, receiving no reply to her calls, went out to investi- 
gate. She found the room empty. The cook had crawled out 
of a back window, had climbed over a high board fence and had 
made her escape into the street. That evening a drayman 
came for her things, but she herself never did show up again, 
not even to get a small amount of wages due her. 

Right after the war there was a little old negro here who was 
known to everybody as "Crazy Harry." He was very eccentric 
and would abuse and curse whites and blacks with equal im- 
punity, for no one paid any attention to what he said or did. 
The negroes got it in their heads that he was a great hoodoo 
doctor and that he could summon the devil to help him when- 
ever he chose. They feared and hated him, but they treated him 
with marked consideration and courtesy whenever he was around. 
Harry recognized his advantageous position and did everything 
to add to his evil repute. 

Some of his capers were amusing in the extreme and at some 
future time I intend devoting an entire article to him and his 
doings, for he was a character whose memory deserves preser- 
vation. I will say here that his leading characteristic was 
hatred of the Yankee soldiers who were in possession of Houston 
right after the war. He hated every one of them, from the 
commanding general down to the lowest private, and played no 
favorites when he distributed his abuse of them. But enough 
of Old Harry for this time. 



RELICS OF THE WAR. 

WALKING down Main Street the other day I saw in one 
of the show windows an assortment of shot and shell 
which, according to an attached card, were taken 
out of the bayou near the Milam Street bridge. These had all 
been nicely cleaned and painted black, so that they looked as 
good as new, in spite of the fact that they had remained so 
many years in the mud of Buffalo Bayou. 

One would naturally suppose that they had been thrown in 
the bayou to keep them from falling into the hands of the Fed- 
erals who at that time were expected to invade Texas. Such, 
however, was not the case. Lee had surrendered; Johnson had 
surrendered and the Trans-Mississippi department of the Con- 
federate states was alone in its glory to represent the Confed- 
eracy. However, the soldiers of the Trans-Mississippi depart- 
ment did not care for such an honor and those stationed at Gal- 
veston, Houston and other points on the coast, having no enemy 
in sight to whom to surrender, concluded to take matters in 
their own hands and just quit. Having quit they concluded to 
take with them everything movable that belonged to the Con- 
federacy. Horses, wagons, guns and ammunition were seized 



132 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

wherever found, and of these powder and lead were more sought 
after than all else. At that time there was a large two-story 
brick house on the corner of Travis and Congress Avenue, north 
(Side of market square, owned by Jack Kennedy, the father of 
the late John Kennedy and father-in-law of Wm, Foley. The 
building extended back on Travis Street where Foley's store 
now is. This building was occupied by the Confederates and 
was used as a factory for making percussion caps and cartridges. 
Where Foley's store now stands was used as a warehouse and 
in it were stored boxes of cartridges, caissons filled with ammuni- 
tion for field guns, rifles and any kind of ammunition except 
that for heavy guns. There was a large quantity of cannon 
powder, hand grenades and large bombs stored over in the old 
powder house near the city cemetery, northwest of the Central 
Railway depot. The powder house was broken open by the 
soldiers and its contents, proving undesirable, were scattered 
over the ground or rolled down the hill into White Oak Bayou. 
The next move was on the Kennedy building and here they 
reaped a rich harvest. Boxes of cartridges were broken open 
and their contents appropriated. Sacks of powder were ripped 
open and when found to be cannon powder, they were thrown on 
the floor. Soon the floor was covered with powder, loose per- 
cussion caps and an indescribable assortment and litter of 
dangerous things. There were hundreds of rough shod men 
trampling and stamping over this and the wonder is that the 
whole place and everybody for blocks around were not blown 
to pieces. 

The remarkable thing is that no one seemed to realize that 
there was the least danger and it was a good natured, jolly 
crowd that went on with the work of looting. One shining ex- 
ample of an opposite opinion was the owner of the building, 
Mr. Kennedy. He realized the danger to the fullest extent and 
did all in his power to check such recklessness. He begged 
and implored the crowd to get out and let him lock the doors 
and pointed out the almost certain explosion and consequent 
destruction if a halt were not made. All his talk fell on deaf 
ears and finally in desperation he took matters in his own hands. 
He hired a lot of men and giving them buckets full of water 
he flooded the place. There were no hydrants or water works 
at that time so the water was drawn from a cistern and the 
buckets passed from hand to hand until the place was flooded. 
Late in the evening everything worth saving had been carried 
off by the soldiers, but the shells and hand granades with a lot 
of fuses remained. These were all dangerous, of course, so Mr. 
Kennedy concluded to get rid of them. He hired some drays 
and teams, loaded the shells on them and, carting them down to 
the Milam Street bridge, known then as "the iron bridge," he 
had them cast in the bayou. 

There must be hundreds of them there yet. From time to 
time during the prevalence of a norther, the water in the bayou 
falls so as to reveal those which were dumped off near the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 133 

banks. These were fished out and saved as relics, but no doubt 
hundreds of others lie deeply buried in the mud or in such deep 
water that they are never exposed. 

In 1866 a severe norther blew the water out of the bayou, re- 
vealing a number of these shells near the bank. Two young men, 
who were machinists in McGowan's foundry, fished one of the 
shells out of the mud and placed it on the bank to dry. When 
dinner time came they took their hammers and tools and tried 
to get the fuse out of the shell. They had worked but a few 
moments when there was a terrible explosion and both young 
men were instantly killed, being horribly mangled. 

A negro living out near the Hardcastle place in the Fourth 
Ward got two or three of these old shells out of the bayou. He 
left them lying around his yard for a long time, not knowing 
they were dangerous. One day while cleaning up his yard he 
raked the trash up over one of the bombs and set fire to it. The 
explosion that followed alarmed the whole neighborhood, but 
fortunately did no damage to any one. It is safe to say' that 
the other shells belonging to the negro's collection now rest 'at 
the bottom of the bayou which runs near his place. 

* * * 

"CONSTITUTION BEND." 

I DON'T blame outsiders very much for laughing at Houston's 
ship channel when they receive their only impression of 
what the channel is from the end of it that lies within the 
city limits. If I did not know that a short street car ride would 
land me on the banks of the real channel, very wide and very 
deep— a waterway that by easy engineering can be made a sec- 
ond Manchester Canal— I would be tempted to laugh too. The 
bayou at the foot of Main Street is not of proportions to sug- 
gest great confidence, nor is its greasy, dirty and sluggish water 
such as to inspire much respect. 

As the city has grown the bayou has shrunk. The bed has 
gradually filled up with debris, washed from the streets, and 
the bayou has become much smaller. In former years Buffalo 
Bayou was really an attractive stream. Its water was clear, 
its banks were grassy and full of wild flowers, and on the whole 
it was a beautiful stream. I can remember when all that part 
of the Fifth Ward that comes down to the point where White 
Oak and Buffalo Bayou meet was a dense forest and a great 
picnic ground. A steamboat or barge would be swung across 
the bayou and the picknickers would cross on it as a bridge. 
The baou was very deep, too, having a natural depth at the foot 
of Main Street of from fifteen to eighteen feet. I don't know 
how deep it is now, but it can not be very deep anywhere along 
there, owing to the sand and mud that has filled it up. 

Some miles below Houston there used to be a big bend in 
the bayou called "Constitution Bend." At this point the bayou 
is very deep and wide. I can remember when I was a child 



134 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

trying to find out why it was called "Constitution" Bend. I do 
not remember to have ever found any one who knew. Lately I 
discovered the reason, or rather, a possible explanation. 

In 1838 Mr. John K. Allen gave the captatn of the steamer 
Constitution $1000 to bring his boat to the foot of Main Street. 
The Constitution was an ocean-going vessel that plied between 
Galveston and New Orleans. She had a terrible time getting 
from Harrisburg to Houston and after she got here she could 
not turn around, but had to back down to a big bend below the 
city. There is no record of her having made a second trip, but 
it is evident that she gave her name to the bend. Constitution 
Bend has been eliminated by a cut-off channel dredged in re- 
cent years. 

The Laura and the Yellowstone, the two steamers that had 
been in the trade for about a year before then, were small affairs 
and could turn with ease. Had the Constitution been on to the 
trick developed later by the steamboat men she could have 
turned also. The thing was very simple and easily accom- 
plished. The bow of the boat was tied to the bank beyond the 
mouth of White Oak Bayou and then the stern was backed into 
that bayou, the bow hauled down stream, and there you were, 
as nice a turn as possible. In later years much larger boats 
than the Constitution came to Houston regularly and none of 
them ever had the slightest trouble in turning. 

The Laura, Captain Griffin, was the first boat that ever came 
up the bayou to Houston. She arrived at the foot of Main 
Street January 22, 1837, and it took her two days to get from 
Harrisburg to Houston. Not long after the Laura's exploit the 
Yellowstone, Captain West, arrived here, coming through the 
West Bay at Galveston, from Quintana. 

However, the largest ocean-going steamer that has ever been 
to the foot of Main Street was a blockade runner. I don't re- 
member her name. She came up here during the spring of 1863 
and anchored at the foot of Main Street, but afterward dropped 
down and discharged her cargo of war munitions near the foot 
of San Jacinto Street. There was a big flood in the Bayou and, 
the water being very high, she had no trouble either in coming 
or getting away. It is possible that Captain Bill Flagg knows 
something about this steamer, for he was in the Confederate 
navy and had much to do with blockaders and blockade running 
during the war. 

It is not going to be so very long now when genuine, bona 
fide ocean-going vessels will be running regularly to the foot of 
Main Street, and it is well to put these pioneer steamer! on rec- 
ord for the use of future historians. 

* 4« * 

LEFT HAND FISHING CLUB AS CRITICS, 

NEARLY all the moving pictures bear this announcement: 
"Censored by the national board," etc. That, of course, 
is to guarantee that no improper shows slip by. I under- 
stand that Houston also has a board of censors, whose duties 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 135 

are to guard the good peopie from being shocked. In the olden 
days there was nothing of that kind attempted and the places of 
amusement had everything their own way and did whatever they 
pleased. Of course, some of the plays and exhibitions they put 
on were outrageous and scarcely fit for anyone, but there was 
no other remedy than to boycott them or literally run them out 
of town. 

I remember a novel and most effective plan adopted by Chief 
Coyle and a number of the members of the "Left Hand Fishing 
Club," for suppressing one of those shows, which created immense 
amusement at the time. It was a sort of Adamless Eden Com- 
pany and had about 15 or 20 girls who were traveling on their 
shapes. The first night the house was crowded, but nearly all 
the respectable people left before the show was half over. The 
next night the "Left Hand Fishing Club" took the matter in hand. 
A number of them secured seats, all in a row, near the front. 
They sat quietly and with a wonderful amount of dignity, until 
the curtain rose on the great scene, which was the troupe of 
girls all dressed up, or more properly speaking, all undressed 
up. Then each member of the club, with a face as serious as 
if he were at a funeral, produced from under his coat a big tin 
cylinder, which he carefully extended into a telescope about 
four feet long and with it slowly reviewed the whole line of 
beauty. The effect was marvelous. The girls could not sta*id 
the thing and broke for cover behind the wings of the stage, 
while the audience went wild with delight and the show came 
to an abrupt end. The funniest part of the whole thing was 
the serious faces of the "Left Handers." Not one of them 
smiled and all seemed puzzled to understand what had occurred. 

In the early seventies there were several good amateur and 
semi-professional actors in Houston. There was Charley Wal- 
lace, a professional actor, who had great talent, and Charley 
Evans, a scene painter and actor, besides a number of amateurs. 
Above and far beyond all was Captain Charles Bickley, who 
wrote plays and often took prominent parts in them. He was a 
great favorite among the professionals, for he had written a play 
for a young actress which had made for her fame and fortune. 
He gave it to her and as it proved a success and had a long run 
in New York and made a fortune for her all the actors watched 
the captain closely, hoping he would do something of the kind 
for them. They always gladly helped him to put on anything he 
would write. 

On one occasion the captain produced one of his plays at Per- 
kins Hall. He insisted on taking the leading part, but unfor- 
tunately he took so many drinks during the first act that it be- 
came necessary to kill the hero, which was Bickley, in that act, 
an event scheduled to come off at the end of the play. Then 
the plot was changed and the piece was played kind of back- 
wards, presenting the most confusing and amazing complica- 
tions Imaginable. It was wonderful and to add to the fun of the 
situation, Captain Bickley could be heard behind the scenes. 



136 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

insisting that it was his time to go on. He and the other actors 
were having more work off the stage than were those on it. If 
anyone ever found out what the plot of that play was I never 
heard of it. It was said by some who had read it before its 
murder, to have been very good, but it never had a fair chance 
to display its merits. There is one thing sure, the audience 
would not have had such a good time as they did if the captain 
had remained sober. 

Now I don't want anyone to form a false idea of Captain Bick- 
ley. He was just exactly as I have pictured him — a real Bo- 
hemian, and he would, if he could write about himself just as 
I have written. He was really a remarkable man and a genius. 
He wrote the play I have mentioned in the foregoing, for a little 
actress named Elsie Weston. She belonged to a stock com- 
pany here and had considerable talent both as a singer and 
actress. Captain Bickley wrote several songs for her and finally 
wrote a play for her. It was called the "Shadows of London" 
or something like that. Elsie went to New York, got the play 
put on by some manager and it met with instant success and 
had a long and brilliant run. Elsie then went to Europe and 
the play was successful over there. She made a fortune out of 
it, but I don't think Captain Bickley ever received but one or 
two short letters from her after she went North. I am sure he 
never got a cent of money from her. 

The most amazing thing about Bickley was, when, where and 
how he found time to write anything at all. He was always on 
the street, night and day, and apparently did nothing but enjoy 
life. After midnight he was generally loaded and singing that 
favorite song of his which was a sort of barometer telling his 
condition. 

I was talking to Dr. George McDonnell the other day and he 
told me about a green policeman arresting Bickley one night. 
The policeman, who was a new hand, saw Bickley staggering 
along and "pinched" him. Bickley was indignant and tried to 
explain. "I am Br-uic-ly," he mumbled, "Br-uic-ly, don't you 
know?" 

"I don't care if you are a bricklayer," said the policeman, "you 
are going with me," and he took him to the station where he 
was at once released, of course, for he was as great a favorite 
with the members of the "force" as he was with everybody else. 



OLD PEG. 

I SUSPECT that I have been rather more than half Bohemian 
all my life without being conscious of it. In no other way 
can I account for the fact that every tramp printer or tele- 
graph operator that has been in Texas during the past 20 or 
30 years has gravitated toward me as naturally as if I were the 
object point of his search. I have known them all, and I confess 
the wide acquaintance I Iiave had in that line has given me 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 137 

more pleasure than annoyance. Jim Baker, "Shorty" Parish and 
one or two others among the printers and "Peg" among the 
telegraph operators were characters whose acquaintance at times 
was rather embarrassing, but on the whole rather beneficial. 
All of the even moderately old printers remember the first two 
I have named, while I am sure all the telegraphers of the 80's 
remember the last, for he was a character never to be forgotten. 
"Peg" was not his proper name, of course. He had a Christian 
and a surname, too, but he also had a wooden leg, and that took 
precedence over everything else, and he became "Peg" and 
nothing else. 

He was one of the most expert operators that ever struck 
Texas. He was what was called an Associated Press operator 
and could take and send more copy during a night than any- 
body. He was high-toned and swore he would never work for 
less than $35 per week, and as such jobs were scarce and, even 
when he got one, hard to hold, because he would celebrate his 
success at the end of the first week when he was paid off, he 
was generally idle. He had lost one of his legs in a railroad ac- 
cident, having gone to sleep and fallen off the brakebeam, or 
something of that kind. The railroad patched him up in one of 
the hospitals and gave him a fine wooden leg to say nothing 
more about the matter. The leg was really a fine one, and 
"Peg" could, and did, get from $10 to $15 on it at any pawnshop. 

During his periods of temporary pecuniary embarrassment he 
had another leg for everyday use. This was simply an old-fash- 
ioned broomstick looking affair, which while not ornamental was 
quite useful. It got so that one could tell the financial standing 
of "Peg" by the style of leg he wore. He had been all over the 
country, knew all the newspaper men from Chicago to San 
Francisco and in every city and big town in Texas. He was 
a great talker, and when only half-loaded was very amusing. 
He told some good stories, too. I remember one in particular 
that will bear retelling, though, of course, I can't tell it as he 
did. It was in the News office one night after "30" had been 
sent to the composing room and we were all indulging in a talk. 
"Peg" held the floor. 

"Gent-teel-men," said he, "you can talk about your 'hot towns' 
as much as you want to, but Santone takes the cake. I was out 
there last winter and I had the time of my life. There was a 
big variety show going on down on one of the plazas and, of 
course, I went to see it. The place was crowded and I got a 
seat away back near the door, and I was glad afterward that I 
did. The show was nearly over when a drunken cowboy came 
in. He had two big guns strapped round his waist and a bowie 
knife that looked like a young sword. He refused to take his 
hat off and made a terrible row about it when a man asked 
him to remove his hat and sit down. He swaggered about and 
the show had to stop for a minute or two. He ordered a bottle 
of champagne and then, catching sight of the boxes on the edge 
of the stage, he made for one. Everybody seemed to be afraid 



138 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

of him and tried to quiet and pacify him. When he reached 
the box he tore down the curtains and ordered three girls to 
bring him three bottles of champagne, which they did in a hurry. 
The show had been forced to come to a standstill by now and 
everybody was watching the cowboy. 

"While he was drinking his wine a fellow on the stage began 
to sing. The cowboy promptly ordered him to stop. The fellow 
paid no attention, but went on singing. The cowboy hammered 
on the box with a bottle and made a terrible racket. Finally the 
singer got mad and, advancing to the front of the stage, asked 
if there was not an officer in the house to take that drunken 
nuisance out and lock him up. There was no response, for the 
policeman, if there was one there, was hidden out. The singer 
repeated his request for an officer and finally the cowboy said 
to him that if he wanted him put out so bad he had better 
undertake the job himself. 

"The singer was game and accepted the challenge and an- 
nounced that he would do so. He advanced to the side of the 
stage and began climbing up to the box. It was about ten feet, 
being on the second tier. The cowboy sat right still until the 
fellow got nearly to the top, then he reached out and caught him 
by the collar of his coat and dragged him into the box. They 
dropped to the floor in a clinch, but as they fell I saw the cowboy 
had his knife in his hand. The girls fled. The table was 
knocked over and there was a terrible racket for a few minutes. 
Then I saw them rise, the cowboy holding the singer by the 
back of the neck. He rammed him face foremost against the 
wall and rammed that big knife through him twice and then, 
slamming it plumb through him between the shoulders, he left 
it sticking in his body and, picking him up, hurled him out of 
the box to the stage below. 

"It was all over in a minute and there was the biggest stam- 
pede you ever saw. The whole audience made for the door in 
one solid mass, and I was working well in the lead, in spite of 
having only one good leg to work with. When I struck the side- 
walk I lit out in good style and ran two blocks before I stopped. 
I saw a policeman and I rushed to him: 'You better go down 
yonder,' I said; 'a cowboy just murdered a man in the theatre 
down there.' He looked at me and grinned. 'That's all right,' 
he said. 'They have been killing that same man for two nights 
now. It's part of the show.' Then I realized that I had been 
sold and I took the policeman into the Buckhorn Saloon and 
threw a couple of scoops into him to keep quiet." 

"Hold on," said "Peg," as we started to leave, "that story is 
not finished. The best part is to come. The next night I went 
back to enjoy the fun of seeing the stampede, now that I knew 
it was all a part of the show. I got a seat near the end of a 
row near the middle of the house, and there is where I was a 
fool. The cowboy came in and went through the same perform- 
ance. There was the same stampede, too, but it started sooner 
than I calculated. There was a big Dutchman near me and he 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 139 

stampeded at the first flash of the knife and took the whole 
tier of seats with him. In the rush they got my leg, the broom- 
stick one, jammed in the seat and broke it square off. Then 
they walked all over me, and I never saw a thing. When the 
dust settled they found me all spraddled out on the floor. The 
proprietor acted pretty square. He set 'em up two or three 
times, sent me home in a hack and had a carpenter come round 
early the next morning and fix my stem, and that, night I left 
for El Paso. Santone was too strenuous for me." 



INDIANS IN HOUSTON. 

ONLY the real old, old timers can remember the days when 
Houston had free "wild West" shows — the days when 
the Indians were here. There was a tribe living near 
Houston in the early days and they used to come to town quite 
often. They brought venison, bear meat and other game and 
also brought skins and pelts. In 1836 there was a trading post 
down near the bayou, where the residence of Mr. Horace Taylor 
was located afterward, but in 1850 and for a few years later 
the Indians had no particular place at which to trade. Generally 
they did most of their trading with John Kennedy and Cornelius 
Ennis. Mr. Kennedy got most of the trade, however, because 
his whiskey was the strongest, perhaps, and then, too, old Mingo, 
the chief, was a great friend of Mr. Kennedy, whom he consid- 
ered a great man. 

Those Indians would come in town like lambs but would go 
away like raging lions. They would come in looking like a lot 
of dirty vagabonds, but a few drinks of whiskey would trans- 
form them into veritable warriors and wild west acrobats. 
Their capers and antics were amusing and ever.vbody turned out 
to see them. On one occasion Mr. Ennis presented Mingo, the 
chief, with a dilapidated buggy and harness. Mingo at once 
hitched his war horse, a little mustang pony, to the buggy and 
the pony resented the indignity, of course. There were all kinds 
of antics cut up before the pony could be brought to enter into 
the spirit of the game, but Mingo persevered and finally con- 
quered. Then he proceeded to get drunk, or, more properly 
speaking, proceeded to keep drunk, to celebrate his added glory. 
He drove all over town and would not leave his buggy even to 
get a drink, and he drew the line on going home and stayed two 
days to celebrate. I remember those Indians well, for all my 
life I have been afraid of Indians, of the tame ones as much as 
the wild ones. They generally had their knives and guns with 
them, and I was not alone in being afraid of them. I was talk- 
ing to ex-Mayor Lord, who is also an ex-officer of many kinds, 
the other day about those Indians, and he told me that while 
he was city marshal, or something of that kind, some of the 
Indians got drunk and one big fellow got very bad. He had a 
big bottle of whiskey. Mr. Lord said he did not care to tackle 



140 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

a drunken Indian because he did not know anything about In- 
dians, and he did not care to have any of his men tackle them 
either. Still he recognized the fact that the Indian had to be 
arrested and locked up. Finally he hit on a plan. He had one 
of his friends grab the bottle of whiskey and run into the old 
calaboose with it. He knew the Indian would follow the whis- 
key. The plan worked all right. The Indian ran into the lockup 
and the decoy duck slipped out and then Mr. Lord locked the 
door. 

There was another tribe further up on the San Jacinto who 
used to come to Houston also. I can remember a gang of them 
bringing a big buffalo which they had captured or stolen some- 
where, and hauling it about market square. Perhaps it would 
be more truthful to say that the buffalo hauled the Indians about 
the square, for that is what it did. They had two hair lariats 
around his horns and guided him when he was not guiding them. 
I don't know what they ever did with the buffalo, for all I can 
remember is seeing the fun. 

Now, one would suppose that having a lot of drunken Indians 
about would be a great nuisance, and I suppose it was at times, 
but as a rule they were a source of much fun and amusement. 
It is really a pity that "high life" was unknown at that time, for 
its possibilities for extracting strenuous action from those Indian 
ponies would have been most welcome by the fun makers. As 
it was, turpentine had to do duty, and many a drunken Indian 
found his horse prepared to share his wildness and activity when 
he staggered out of a saloon or a back room of a grocery, all 
through the kind attention of some unknown gentlemen who had 
invested their money in turpentine to help the play along. For- 
tunately there was only soft mud for the Indians to fall on, so 
no damage was ever done. The Indians died off rapidly and 
finally a few survivors were moved to the Indian Territory, north 
of Red River. 

The old chief Mingo was really an Indian gentleman. He 
would get drunk, of course, just as any and every other Indian 
will, but that was his only fault. He spoke rather good English 
and was liked by the citizens of Houston with whom he came in 
contact. I think he died before his tribe moved away, but I am 
not certain. 

V iji if» 

A WAR STORY. 

I HAVE no patience with the latter day heroes. A telegraph 
operator is on a sinking boat that he can't leave, much as 
he would like to do so. He sends a wireless message, 
secures aid and is proclaimed a hero and given a reception on 
his arrival in New York. An engineer discovers a burning bridge 
in front of his train. He reverses his engine, puts on the air- 
brakes and rides to his death and is proclaimed a hero. Now 
the case of the telegraph operator is too ridiculous and absurd 
to discuss at all, while the engineer is scarcely better. When 
he had reversed his engine and applied his air-brakes he had 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 141 

done all that possibly could be done, and when he did not jump 
or try to save himself he showed that he was more of a fool and 
idiot than a hero. 

Perhaps one reason why I am so prejudiced against the latter 
day "heroes" is that I have known one or two of the genuine 
oaes. 

For a number of years Houston entertained an angel unaware 
in the person of a man who was regarded as a crank and miser, 
but who was in fact one of the grandest men and heroes that 
ever lived. This was Judge John Duncan. As I write that name 
I can see some of the old-timers who thought they knew him, 
sit up and take notice. I admit that I would be with them in 
doing so too, if I did not know the judge's history. As a matter 
of fact only two persons in Houston knew anything about the 
judge, for he was not given to talking about his private affairs 
and resented all attempts to pry into them. He told me part 
of his story and Judge George Goldthwaite told me the latter 
part of it. The judge had but one leg, having lost the other 
while in command of a Mississippi regiment during the war. 
He had an old-fashioned wooden leg and one could hear him 
coming down the sidewalk a block away. He was very sensitive 
about his missing leg and no one ever made allusion to it in 
his presence. One evening he and I were sitting in front of the 
Capitol Hotel and I asked him where he lost his leg. 

"Sir," said he, "it is a story that sounds so absurd and improb- 
able that I hate to speak of it for fear that my friends will doubt 
either my veracity or saneness. I lost it in battle, which, of 
course, was not strange, but the circumstances. were most won- 
derful and almost incredible. 

"I was lieutenant colonel of my regiment and we had been 
sent up in Missouri to take part in the campaign there. Our 
colonel had been wounded the day before and I was in command. 
Early one morning I received an order to advance my regiment, 
drive off a small detachment of the enemy from a woods on the 
opposite side of a big field and hold the position until more troops 
could be sent to me. It was supposed that the enemy had only a 
small force in the woods, so you can judge of my surprise when 
as we reached a point about half way across the field the enemy 
opened on us at easy range with a withering rifle fire. Instead 
of a small force we found ourselves confronted by a full brigade 
that had been moved up during the night. There was an old 
rock fence, about two feet htgh and I ordered the men to lie 
down behind it, knowing that assistance would be sent us so soon 
as our desperate situation was discovered by our people. For- 
tunately the enemy had no artillery or they would have exter- 
minated us right there. The rifle fire was fierce and one had 
only to raise a finger above the stone fence to have it shot off. 
I was lying there expecting relief every moment, when I heard 
a voice behind me and, looking around, I saw a boy about 16 
years old, seated on a big white horse. The bullets were flying 



142^ TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

all about him, but he seemed to have a charmed life, for none 
of them struck him. 

"'Why don't you charge?' he called out. 'Get up and go at 
them.* 

"The question and command were so absurd that nobody 
thought of paying any attention to him. Then the climax came. 

" 'If your officers are a lot of cowards I will lead you,' he 
said and spurring his horse he leaped the low wall. The regi- 
ment rose to a man and made a dash forward. The next mo- 
ment the ground was strewn with dead and wounded, I being 
among the latter with my thigh shattered. Human blood and 
bone could not stand against that wall of lead and the regiment 
broke, and what few were able to do so got back to the shelter 
of the fence. The boy was unhurt and rode up and down the 
line trying to get the men to make another charge. I shall 
never forget the conflicting emotions that wrenched my soul and 
body at that time. One moment I prayed that the young fool 
would get his head shot off and the next moment I was so afraid 
that he would get hurt that my heart almost stood still. There 
must have been thousands of bullets fired at him, yet not one 
touched him or his horse. Seeing that his efforts to move the 
men were hopeless the young fellow waved his hat, put spurs 
to his horse and rode away. I was left on the field and after- 
wards fell in the hands of the enemy, and when I came out of 
prison I could never learn who the boy was or anything about 
him." 

That was the story Judge Duncan told me, and since the only 
hero mentioned was an unknown and foolish boy, your readers 
may be wondering where Judge Duncan's heroism comes in. 
That was the part of the story told me by Judge George Goldth- 
waite, who was the judge's confidential friend and attorney, after 
the death of Judge Duncan. 

Judge Duncan was practicing law here in Houston and was 
apparently starving to death when his friends interested them- 
selves and got him elected city recorder. The salary was not 
a princely one, but ft was about $1800 a year, and the judge's 
friends expected him to live a little more comfortably than he 
had been doing. It was at this time that he earned the name 
of miser. He had a little office and an old lounge. He made this 
lounge his bed and took his meals at some cheap restaurant 
near the market. He made no explanations to any one and all 
the people knew was that he was too close-fisted to spend a cent. 
Finally he died and after his death Judge Goldthwaite told me 
this part of his story: 

After he was shot down, as I have described, the Confederate 
army fell back, and the judge, having had his leg amputated, 
was left in a house near the roadside, with a lady whose hus- 
band was away in the Confederate army. This lady nursed and 
cared for him, although the commanding general in Missouri had 
issued a proclamation announcing that anyone who harbored a 
"rebel" would be put to death. 



HO USTON AND HOUSTONIANS 143 

While Judge Duncan was yet unable to get out of bed, the 
lady's husband came home on a furlough one afternoon, and the 
same night the house was surrounded by Federal troops and the 
husband was captured. He would have been simply made a 
prisoner of war had they not found Judge Duncan there. When 
they discovered that the people had been harboring a "rebel," 
the officer held a drum-head courtmartial and ordered the hus- 
band to be shot at daylight 

Judge Duncan begged them to shoot him instead, but they re- 
fused and the next morning they took the husband out and 
shot him. The poor woman was left a widow with two little 
children. 

Judge Goldthwaite told me that Judge Duncan had deprived 
himself of everything except the actual necessities of life, to 
send money to that woman. Being a cripple, past middle life 
and extremely poor, it was uphill work, but he faced it manfully 
and at the time of his death, he had succeeded in giving the two 
children a fair education and had kept the lady from actual want, 
at least. 

When I heard that story I felt like tearing my hair and kicking 
myself for ever having even thought that the judge was a miser. 
He was a noble man, and I and all others who had laughed at 
him were unworthy to unloose his shoe. Had the judge ever told 
his story it would have been different, for then it might have 
seemed that he was asking sympathy or trying to get praise for 
his act. He did nothing of the kind. He went through life quiet- 
ly and silently, performing the great duty he felt rested on him. 
Now by the side of this man, place your wireless operator calling 
for help or your fool engineer staying on his engine because he 
had lost his head and was too scared to jump— these so-called 
heroes, and note the difference. Once or twice I have thought of 
writing this story for the Confederate Veteran, but I am glad now 
that I did not do so, for it is much better to tell it through the 
columns of The Chronicle, where it will be seen and read by 
hundreds who thought they knew Judge Duncan, but who will 
find that they did not, and. like me they will want to breathe a 
prayer for the rest of his soul, now that it is too late to do any- 
thing else. 

* * * 

CAPTAIN CHAS. BICKLEY. 

ONE reads a great deal in newspaper circles about "Bohe- 
mians," but the fact remains that one seldom comes in 
contact with a genuine one. In all my experience I have 
never met but one, though I have met several of the spurious 
article, fellows who were simply more or less refined tramps and 
bums, and who were glad to be called Bohemians because it gave 
a bit of respectability and gloss to their otherwise dissolute be- 
havior. There are tramp newspaper men just as there are tramp 
printers and telegraph operators, but there are few genuine Bo- 
hemians. The race, or whatever they may be called, died out 



144 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

years ago. As I have already said, I have never met but one, 
but he was a good one all right, and all the old-timers will recall 
him with pleasure. I refer to Captain Charles Bickley. He was 
a comparatively young man when he first appeared on the scene 
in Houston. Of all the devil-may-care, heedless and care-free 
fellows on earth he was the greatest. He lived, not for the day, 
but for the immediate present and gave no thought to the hour 
that was sixty minutes ahead. He was a brilliant writer, drunk 
or sober; a fine talker, and, what may sound strange, a highly 
honorable man. 

He wrote poetry and drank whiskey, wrote plays, short stories 
and drank more whiskey. He could always get a job when sober 
and he could hold it as long as he could manage to hold his 
pencil, for he gave rather more than value received, for his 
writings were first class and editors were glad to have him with 
them. He would hold a job for a time in Houston, get drunk, get 
fired and move on to Galveston or San Antonio, go through the 
same performance there and then show up in Houston again. 
He got passes over the railroads whenever and wherever he 
wanted them and trusFed to luck for drinks on the way. His 
title of captain was genuine, for he had actually been a captain 
in the Confederate army. When the war ended he took a trip 
abroad, though he did it without money and simply on cheek. 
He came to Houston about 1867 and secured a position on the 
Telegraph. He at once became the best known man in town 
and was popular with everybody. He was stage struck, of 
course, for one never finds a true Bohemian who is not, and he 
wrote several plays which were produced by amateurs and pro- 
fessionals. One of his plays made quite a hit, locally. It was 
somewhat on the order of the "Chanticleer" and was written at 
the time the old market house was being pulled down. The place 
was overrun by big rats who had possession of the building for 
generations of rats. The captain had these rats as his char- 
acters and- made them review the history of the old building 
and of all the doings of the early Houstonians who had passed 
through it. 

It was a historical review of Houston from a rat's point of 
view. The captain took a leading part and acquitted himself so 
well that he would have gone off with the first strolling com- 
pany that passed through Houston and become a professional, 
if any of the managers would have taken him. 

The captain revolved between the desks of the local papers 
and those of other Texas cities for several years and then dis- 
appeared and no one knew what had become of him until an 
announcement of his sudden death appeared in one of the New 
Orleans papers. 

In those days there were no managing editors to blue-pencil 
things, but the local editor, as he was called, wrote what he 
choose to write and stood all the consequences. When an objec- 
tionable article appeared the aggrieved one never thought of 
going after the editor of the paper, but went direct after the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 145 

local editor. Bickley rarely wrote anything that got him in 
trouble, but occasionally he would do so. On one occasion he 
wrote a local item that reflected rather severely on a well known 
gambling saloon. The proprietor took his medicine and kept 
his mouth shut, but one of his dealers got drunk and the more 
he thought of it the madder he got. Finally about dark he was 
on the warpath good and strong and taking his gun he started 
out to destroy Bickley. Some one told him that Bickley was in 
Gregory's saloon and the fellow started down there after him. 
He had his pistol in his hand and went down Main Street knock- 
ing people right and left in his haste to get at his victim. Sure 
enough, Bickley was there and he was ripe, too, for he was sing- 
ing, and that was a good way to let people know his condition. 
Unfortunately for the gambler's plans, just as he made a rush 
through the latticed doors to get at Bickley he collided with 
Big Bill Williams, who was as large and almost as strong as 
John Sullivan. Instead of making an apology, the gambler 
swore at Bill and tried to pass him. 

Bill was feeling pretty good himself and the next instant he 
swung onto the gambler's left jaw and curled him up on the side- 
walk. Bill never said a word. He walked out to where the 
gambler was lying, kicked his pistol out in the street, and 
walked up the sidewalk, just as though nothing out of the or- 
dinary had occurred. There was a dead silence and the cap- 
tain's voice could be heard as he continued his song: 

"I kissed her in the kitchen, 

I kissed her in the hall. 
Good morning, ladies, 

I've come to kiss you all." 

One could always tell the exact condition of the captain when 
they heard him singing that favorite song of his. 

About the funniest scene I ever witnessed was seeing the cap- 
tain, an eminent lawyer and a leading doctor all drunk in the 
back room of a barroom. Each was singing his own song and 
paying not the least bit of attention to the other two. The doc- 
tor was singing, in a low, crooning tone: 

"How in hell did that gal know 
That I took sugar in my coffee-o?" 

The judge was singing at the top of his voice in a growling 
bass: 

"The ship she lay four miles from shore, 
"The ship she lay four miles from shore. 
And there came on board a gay buccaneer," etc. 

While the captain was singing the classic referred to above, 



146 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

as the negro porter expressed it, "they shoe was enjoyin' their- 
selves." 

Now Captain Bickley would last on a modern newspaper about 
half a minute, but in those days he was just looked upon as 
quite the thing, just so long as he could keep sober enough to 
write copy. 

•!• * "f* 

JIMMY DAW. 

JIMMY DAW has been dead and buried for forty years, but, 
if I were a Spiritualist, I would swear that he has been 
around me for the last three nights. I have not thought 
of him for about forty years and yet he was not a man to be 
soon or easily forgotten. Two or three nights ago I woke up 
thinking of Jimmy and he has been with me ever since. Perhaps 
he has gotten hold of a Chronicle and has seen where I have 
been writing about some of the old boys and wants to come in 
for his share. Anyway, I am going to pretend that I believe 
that and gratify him. However, he is entitled to a place in The 
Chronicle on his merits, as Captain William Christian, Mr. A, 
B. Nibbs, Mr. I. C. Lord, Henry Thompson, Colonel Phil Fall or 
any of the real old-timers will bear witness. 

When Mr. William R. Baker was county clerk, or something 
of that sort, in the very early 50's, Jimmy was his chief clerk 
and right-hand bower. He was devoted to Mr. Baker and thought 
there was no man on earth like him. He was a man of some 
education, good manners, and, while he knew nothing of "sona- 
tas," "movements," "positions" and all those kind of things 
violinists love to talk about, he was quite an accomplished 
fiddler and made delightful music. I remember him first on 
account of his fiddle and next, in after years, by the strange 
philosophy he developed and the strange theories he fathered. 
He was always a bit of a character and in his old age he de- 
veloped into a most pronounced and highly entertaining one. 
He lived out near the old graveyard, not far from hangman's 
grove, and I used to go out there to hear him talk. Mr. Baker 
took care of him in his old age, so he was quite comfortable 
and had nothing else to do but think and talk. One of his pet 
theories was that the world had been ruined by education. 

"It makes me mad to hear the preachers talking about hell," 
he said one day. "There ain't no hell. It's all education; that's 
what it is. You take the lowest form of life, the jellyfish or 
the earthworms. They don't know anything; they float or squirm 
around, picking up what they want to eat as they go. They 
don't know anything, they don't have to work or do anything 
but eat, sleep and enjoy themselves. That's heaven. Now, come 
a little higher — to the birds and small animals. They know 
something and they have to pay for it, too, for they have to 
rustle for a living. That's sorter between heaven and purga- 
tory. Next, we come to horses, cows and animals that have got 
more sense, and they have to work and toil for everything they 



HO USTON AND HOUSTONIANS 147 

get. The smarter they are the more is expected of them. That's 
purgatory. Now, come to man. He knows everything, and the 
result is that he is in hell all the time. The more a fellow knows 
the worse off he is and the more you educate him the more hell 
you fix up for him." 

All my life I have been fond of "characters," inordinately so, 
I fear, and in Jimmy Daw I found a most entertaining one. He 
had a great contempt for history and historians and swore that 
all the stories about Napoleon and Julius Caesar and George 
Washington had been fixed up by sharp Yankees to work off on 
the people, just as the wooden nutmegs were fixed up. 

"Why," said he, "it stands to reason that those things are 
fixed up. Even a hundred years is a long time for a man to 
remember anything. I know that for a fact, for once when 
I was a boy I walked five miles to see a man who was a hundred 
years old and all he could tell me was something about a bear 
hunt. He didn't know anything about George Washington and 
if George Washington had have. been a sure enough man and 
had done all the big things history says he did, don't you know 
this old fellow would have remembered all about George instead 
of about that bear?"" 

Jimmy had sorne original ideas about astronomy and held with 
the ancients that the earth is the center of the universe and 
that the sun, moon and stars revolve around it. He admitted 
that the earth is round, but claimed that it is round like a bowl, 
and that it is surrounded with a wall of ice to retain the water 
and that the land floats about the water. 

When I asked him about ships sailing around the earth he 
said all such tales were lies hatched up by historians; that if 
anybody claimed to have gone around the earth they lied, for 
they had simply gone off somewhere and hidden out and then 
come back with their story. 

"It stands to reason," he would say, "that if anybody got off 
on the far edge of the ice, they would have slipped off into 
nowhere and never come back again." 

I think it was in 1872 that I saw him last; then I was out 
of town for several weeks, and when I returned I learned that 
he had died during my absence. He was a queer character. As 
faithful and true as any living being could be. He never in 
his whole life injured any one and, though the peculiarities 
I have mentioned developed late in life, even as a comparatively 
young man he made few friends. He lived to himself, and his 
violin seemed to afford him all the company he desired. Mr. 
Baker and I went to see him often, but I do not remember to 
have ever met any one else there. 

4» * * 

IN THE GRAND OLD TIMES. 

ONE gets in the habit of speaking of "the gool old times," 
without ever stopping to think what those "good old 
times" really were. Distance lends enchantment, and 
only the pleasures are remembered, while the discomforts are 



148 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

either forgotten or ignored. Things today are so vastly better 
and superior in every way that instead of pining for the good 
old times one actually wonders how one could have put up with 
all the discomforts and inconveniences of former days. 

I remember when the first street car service was established 
in Houst()n and what a great thing it was considered. There 
was one little car drawn by a diminutive mule, that had a sleigh 
bell attached to its neck to let people know he was coming. 
There were no conductors, the passenger going up to the front 
of the car and depositing his fare in a box, under the eye of the 
driver. No one could get into that box except the man at head- 
quarters, for it was locked with a padlock and only he had a 
key. At fixed hours he would take out the fares deposited in 
the box and then lock it again. The service was just barely 
better than walking, though frequently not so expeditious, for 
from time to time the car would jump the track and it would 
take some time for the driver and passengers to get it on again. 
When a wreck occurred it was expected that every male passen- 
ger would get out and work like a section hand to help matters 
along. The cars were so small and so light that the driver felt 
safe against long delays if he had two or three men among his 
passengers. 

Now, about the time those street cars made their appearance 
in Houston,^ there was a kind of anti-corporation feeling all over 
the state that caused the street car drivers and the conduct- 
ors of the big railroads to make predatory war on the various 
companies they served. "Knocking down" became one of the 
fine arts and the company that got a fair proportion of its 
passenger earnings at the end of the year considered itself for- 
tunate. This is no joke; it is an actual fact, and the cause for 
it was a mistake that the railroads made in assuming that 
every one of its conductors was a thief and setting spies to 
watch them. The conductors resented that action on the part 
of the railroads and went in to get the benefits of being dis- 
honest since the roads assumed them to be so. Honest men 
were classed as rascals by the roads and they became rascals. 

There were no gates, ticket punching or things of that kind 
in those days. If there was the least trouble about the matter 
the passenger did not go to the ticket office at all, but got on 
the train and paid the conductor. But the whole thing came 
to an abrupt termination through the mistake of a green hand 
who was put on a run in place of a regular conductor who had 
been taken suddenly ill just as his train was about to pull out. 
That was on the northern division of one of the big roads running 
out of Houston. The conductors on that division had "gotten 
together" and agreed on what proportion of the fares they would 
give to the railroad when their run was over and they made 
their report. 

When the regular conductor was taken sick he did not have 
time to instruct his subordinate, who was a baggagemaster 
from the south division, or to warn others, so the baggagemaster 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 149 

went through the whole run without any of the other conductors 
knowing he was there. He went to the division superintendent's 
office, made his report and turned over about $600 in cash. 
Now, according to the rules adopted by the regular conductors, 
the railroad should have received only about $150 for that run. 
The superintendent asked many questions and when he found 
that there had been no convention, picnic or anything of that 
kind and that it was just an ordinary run, he reported the mat- 
ter to the president of the road by wire, and within an hour 
or two every conductor on that division was out of a job. 

Of course, the street car drivers had no picnic like the big 
conductors did, but they managed to hold up their end of the 
line pretty well. In place of nickels, the street car companies 
issued tickets, and these passed everywhere just as actual 
nickels or five-cent pieces would do. Once I was on the old 
fair grounds car when several railroad men were in the cai 
One of them, a long-legged fellow they called Judge, went forward 
and was soon busily engaged in a conversation with the driver. 
One of the others said: "I'll bet Judge is telling that fellow to 
rob that box." We slipped up closer where we could hear the 
conversation and sure enough he was. Here was what he was 
saying: "Catch a young grasshopper and tie a thread round his 
wings, leaving the legs free. Then lower him carefully into the 
box. The minute he touches bottom he will grab onto everything 
in his reach and you can't shake him loose. Then all you got 
to do is to haul him out, clean his feet and drop him back again. 
You can empty that box of every ticket in it in a few minutes." 

I never had a chance to find out if the driver followed his 
advice or not, but I suspect he did, for I noticed he kept a good 
lookout on each side of his track after that, evidently fearing 
that some fool grasshopper might come out of the grass and 
attempt to cross the track. 

Now when I began to write this I intended to point out that 
in the "good old times," it took as long to go from Preston 
Avenue to the fair grounds and return, on the old mule car, 
as it takes to go from here to Galveston on the Interurban! 
There were, several other points I wanted to make, all going to 
show what humbugs the "good old times" are, but I got switched 
off on the north end conductors and the Judge's grasshopper and 
have used up all my space talking about them, so I will have to 
postpone my comparisons until some other time. 



YELLOW FEVER EPIDEMIC. 

THE present agitation over meningitis reminds me of 
some of the really exciting times they used to have in 
Houston when that great enemy, j^ellow fever, made an 
Invasion. For the first few days pandemonium broke loose, and 
then people settled down and waited, in grim desperation, for 



150 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

the inevitable, knowing full well that only a complete exhaustion 
of material or a frost could stop the ravages of the fever. 

Of course no one knew anything about the mosquito causing 
the disease, and some of the methods used to kill the "miasma" 
that was regarded as its cause, were novel. For instance, every 
exposed place was inundated with lime and, at night, huge bon- 
fires, composed largely of tar barrels and tar, were burned at 
the street crossings. I remember, when I was a child, seeing 
those bonfires, which were ordered by the city authorities. Now, 
no doubt, both the lime and the fires did good, the first pre- 
venting the breeding of mosquitoes and the second by driving 
them away with the smoke. 

The present generation can not appreciate the horrors of a 
yellow fever epidemic. One case would appear, then two or 
three, and then people would be taken down by the hundreds. 
In a week the death roll would begin to swell and everything 
like business, except at the drug stores, would be suspended. 
Those who had had the fever became nurses and looked after 
the sick. One good thing was that yellow fever requires nursing 
rather than medicine, and as there were numerous nurses and 
few doctors, the patients generally got along pretty well. The 
doctors were so overrun that when they found a patient in the 
hands of a competent nurse, that they knew to be such, they 
turned the case over to the nurse and went elsewhere, where 
conditions were not so favorable. 

I will never forget the time I had the fever, and as my case 
will give a fair idea of how the disease was treated, I give a 
short description of my experience. It was in 1858. on a Sun- 
day morning, that I was stricken. I got up that morning feeling 
as well as ever, dressed, ate a good breakfast and started to 
Sunday school. On the way to Sunday school I was stricken 
suddenly with a terrible pain in the back of my head and then 
my head began to ache so terribly that I could scarcely see^ 
It was with great difficulty that I managed to walk the two or 
three blocks home, and when I got there I was in such pain 
that I could scarcely talk. My mother knew at once what 
was the matter, for she had had much experience with the fever. 
I was hurried to bed and given a hot mustard foot-bath, and 
then blankets were piled over me. They gave me a dose of 
castor oil. That is one feature of the treatment I shall never 
forget, for after I had taken it they found I had eaten a large 
breakfast and they gave me a mustard emetic, made me throw 
it all up and then repeated the dose of oil. 

The weather was warm, but they kept the bedclothes piled 
on me and the only thing they allowed me to drink was orange 
leaf tea. There I lay and sweated and famished for water for 
three days, or until the fever left me. It was tough treatment, 
but it did the work, and wherever people got the same treat- 
ment and nursing that I got they got well. 

There was no ice in those days, and if there had been any, 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 151 

the man who tried to give a yellow fever patient any would 
have been looked upon as a would-be assassin. 

Where patients could not get proper nursing, they died like 
sheep, and they died in a hurry, too. I remember the great epi- 
demic of 1867. I had come home from college during the sum- 
mer vacation, and just about the time I was getting ready to go 
back the yellow fever broke out and I could not go because 
Houston was quarantined again at once and travel ceased 

Having had the fever I was safe in going everywhere and saw 
a great deal of the fever. I remember four young men who had 
just come to Houston from the North. They were not the least 
afraid of the disease and laughed at their friends who warned 
them against exposing themselves to the night air. I remember 
ex-Mayor I. C. Lord telling them of the danger and warning 
them to be careful. They had rooms in the Kennedy building 
on market square and were over at the market at the time the 
conversation took place. That night the oldest one was stricken 
the next morning the others were down and four days after old 
man Pannel buried all four of them. 

There used to be all kinds of queer stories floating about, 
saying this and that one died, come to and then died again A 
story was current to the effect that a horse drawing a dray- 
load of coffins to the graveyard became frightened, ran away 
and spilt part of the load. It was said that one of the coffins 
burst open and that its occupant, a negro woman, got up and 
made a bee-line for home, got in bed again, got well^nd "lived 

ItT/JZ '^'^'' f *"'•" ^°^' ^ ^°^'^ ^°^«^ ^°r the truth of any 
of these stones, but some funny things happened. Dr. Massie 
died and was laid out. All preparations were completed fo/bury! 
mg him. when he came to life. He was placed in bed again and 
heroic efforts were made to save him, but all in vain He lived 
24 hours and died, the last time for good 

It was during that epidemic that one of the funniest panics on 
record took place. As all grown folk, who were able to nurse 
were engaged in that way it became necessary for the boys to 
sit up with the dead, when the death occurred too late in the 
afternoon to permit of burial at once 

The editor of one of the leading newspapers in Houston died 

ate in the afternoon and Dick Fuller and Fish Allen volunteered 

to sit up with the body. The editor was living in the Ennis rest 

dence on Court House square at the time of his death and thi 

body, after being placed in a coffin, was placed L the back par 

lor on the ground floor. Dick and Fish began their one^y wa^cT 

All went well so ong as they could hear people moving ^ther 

n the house or in the street. Finally about midnight ever ' 

hing became quiet and they began to feel depressed. LiL boys' 

they endeavored to cheer things up by talking about ghosts and 

such cheerful subjects. Dick asked Fish what he would do ff 

the dead man should rise up in his coffin. Before Fish could 

reply there was a terrible shriek near the open window and wUh 

a great bound an immense black cat leaped on the window sill 



152 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

and with arched back and bristling tail, let out another blood- 
curdling cry. Then, without warning the single lamp in the 
room went out, leaving them in darkness. Neither Dick nor 
Fish could ever tell how they got out of the place, but when 
the neighbors arrived and went in to find out what had happened, 
they found the dead man on the floor, the coffin overturned and 
most of the furniture that stood between the window and door 
totally wrecked. Nothing could pursuade those two boys to 
go back in the house, so substitute watchers had to be found. 
The boys worked themselves up to the highest point of nervous- 
ness and excitement, talking about ghosts and dead men and 
that cat managed to put in an appearance just at the psychologi- 
cal moment. I don't blame the boys for not going back, neither 
do I blame them for coming out. 

I don't care whether people believe in ghosts or not, I know 
everybody is afraid of them just as I am. 



FOUGHT WITH FIREWORKS. 

I HAVE never seen it mentioned in any history of Texas, 
though I remember that a long account of it was published 
in the Houston Telegraph of December 25, 1871; nor is it 
generally known today that one of the most remarkable battles 
of modern times was fought on Preston Avenue and on Main 
Street for several blocks on Christmas Eve, 1871. 

The great combat was the result of a joke. It started in a 
small way, but soon grew to great proportions, involving prom- 
inent railroad men, professional men, staid bankers, merchants 
and a good sprinkling of every day kind of people. An account 
of that great battle is worth giving, and as I witnessed the firing 
of the first shot and actually dodged the first ball I feel that I 
am competent to give it. 

Dr. Louis A. Bryan and I came out of Conlief's drug store, on 
Preston Avenue, about 9 o'clock that night. As we stepped on 
the sidewalk, Captain J. Waldo, who was on the opposite side 
of the street, shooting off a big roman candle, lowered it and 
sent a great, green ball directly at us, following it with others 
in rapid succession. We dodged into a nearby store, which 
happened to have a good supply of fireworks on hand and each 
of us got the largest roman candle we could find. Out we went 
and opened fire on Waldo. Andrew Hutcherson came to Waldo's 
assistance, then Sandy Ewing joined Dr. Bryan and me. Mr. 
Fred Stanley joined Waldo and Andrew. It kept up that way 
until within 15 minutes there were full 100 men shooting at 
each other with roman candles. At first they kept apart and 
fired from across the street, but getting excited they closed up, 
made charges and almost reduced it to a hand to hand conflict. 

By common consent Dr. Bryan was chosen as leader of one 
party and Captain Waldo was chosen as leader of the other. 
They kept boys busy bringing up ammunition and it was not long 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 153 

before they had bought every roman candle to be found within 
blocks X)f the battlefield. Dr. Bryan and I were wearing stove- 
pipe hats, and, of course, we received marked attention. Our 
hats were something wonderful to look at within a few minutes 
after the fight got under headway. 

Finally, just as we received a fresh supply of ammunition, 
that of Waldo's party gave out and the fun commenced in 
earnest. We charged them and they fled towards Main Street. 
It was intensely funny and I remember seeing Sandy Ewing 
chasing Mr. W. R. Baker up ftie middle of Main Street, shoot- 
ing him in the back at almost every jump. There were more 
hats and clothes destroyed that night than on any other occa- 
sion in the history of Houston. Fortunately there were no 
serious casualties. Several of the combatants on each side 
received severe burns, and many lost mustaches, beards and 
heads of hair, but no eyes were put out, and only temporary dis- 
figurement resulted. 

Now, when you consider that nearly every man engaged in 
that battle was a leading and prominent citizen, that nearly all 
of them were prominent merchants, bankers, railroad officials 
or professional men, it will be seen what a remarkable fight 
it was. Had it been a lot of boys tt would have been quite 
natural, but it was nothing of the kind. It was a spontaneous 
determination on the part of a lot of grown men to be boys 
again, and the battle was the result. I can remember only a 
few, but the mention of their names will show the character of 
the crowd, for they were all of the same class. There was Dr. 
Louis A. Bryan, Captain J. Waldo, Captain A. Faulkner, Mr. 
Fred Stanley, right hand and confidential adviser of T. W. 
House, Sr., Sandy Ewing, Andrew Hutcheson, Judge George 
Goldthwaite, Dr. Alva Connell, Dr. James Blake, Charley Gentry 
and a score of others whose names escape me. 

Just imagine the general officers of the railroads, the leading 
merchants, bankers, doctors and lawyers of today getting up 
such a racket as that. Why, the mere idea is preposterous! I 
was talking to Dr. George McDonnald, the only one of the old 
crowd left, the other day, and he remarked that the people 
of Houston do not know what fun is, and I believe he is right. 
I don't remember whether Dr. McDonald was in the roman 
candle battle or not, but if he was, he and I are the only sur- 
vivors, for all those I have named have crossed over the river. 
That is the one sad feature about recalling the happy days of 
the past. There are so many sad thoughts connected with the 
subjects I write about. 

* * * 

HOW THEY BEAT FARO. 

IF CAPTAIN JOHN STEEL, Jim Martin, Jack Martin or any 
of the old time sports could come back to life and see their 
former gambling "palaces" being used today as moving 
picture places, shoe shops and for other unworthy purposes they 



154 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

sure would have the right to mourn over the degeneracy of mod- 
ern Houston, In "the good old days" gambling was wide open, 
and while enough deference was paid to appearances to keep 
the halls on the second floors of the buildings, everybody knew 
what was going on and access was very easy and unobstructed. 

It is true that every time the grand jury met the keepers of 
the places were indicted, pleaded guilty and paid a fixed fine, 
which was looked upon as a kind of tax and therefore was con- 
sidered perfectly proper, even by the proprietors themselves. 
Occasionally a grand jury would get too inquisitive and get 
after a bunch of the players and then there was sure enough 
trouble. I remember an occasion of that kind when a number 
of very prominent lawyers, doctors and business men were 
indicted for indulging in poker. Of course they did not want 
to appear in court and at the same time they did not want to 
pay a heavy fine. They clubbed together and employed Colonel 
Manley to defend them and, selecting the man in whose room 
they had played, they placed him on trial, all agreeing to abide 
by the decision in his case. I forget the details of the trial, but 
I remember that Colonel Manley won the case, on the ground 
that there was a bed in the room and that a bedroom was not a 
public place in the meaning of the law, which he read. 

I just happened to think of that case and jotted it down here, 
for I did not intend to write about the moral or legal aspect 
of gambling. Perhaps the best known gambling saloon in Hous- 
ton was the old "Iron Clad," so named because its second story 
was covered with sheet iron, which was above Gregory's saloon 
on the corner of Congress and Main, where Krupp & Tuffly's 
nice store now is. That was a great resort and everybody who 
had sporting blood knew all about it. Some of the most prom- 
inent gamblers in Houston held forth there from time to time 
and thousands of dollars changed hands almost daily at that 
place. 

There was a game of some kind going on all the time and the 
doors were never closed night or day. Some very amusing 
things took place there, too. One night there was a big crowd 
around the faro table and a big game was in progress when 
two men came up the stairsteps, one carrying a large sack. They 
were perfect strangers and no one knew who they were. They 
at once introduced themselves by commanding the gentlemen 
present to hold up their hands, backing their command with two 
nasty looking six-shooters. All held up their hands and while 
one of the intruders kept the gentlemen covered with his gun 
the other advanced with his sack and put the entire "bank roll" 
in it. Then he paid his attention to the guests of the house, 
taking all their money and jewelry. It was a clean sweep and 
when they got through there was not the price of a glass of 
beer in that crowd. Having gotten all the wealth in sight, the 
robber backed out of the room and went downstairs, leaving 
his partner to keep the crowd quiet. When he was safely out 
with his sack he whistled and robber No. 2 began to back out 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 155 

of the room. The crowd had been so taken by surprise that not 
a word had been spoken. As the robber was just going down 
the steps a little fellow who was sitting at the end of the table 
said: 

"It's a good thing I did not have my gun with me." 

The retiring robber took a step back into the room and, cover- 
ing the little fellow with his pistol, asked him what he would 
have done if he had had his gun. 

"Why, I would have lost that, too, as well as my watch," was 
the reply. 

Now, the strange part about this performance was the fact 
that neither of the robbers made the least attempt to disguise 
himself. No one had ever seen either of them before nor has 
anyone ever seen either of them since. 

They simply came, conquered and disappeared. Probably 
they were the only men who ever beat that faro game. 

Now of all of the superstitious people on earth, gamblers are 
the worst. Anything strange or unusual will get on their nerves 
and unfit them for any and everything. One night I saw a 
splendid illustration of this. Dick Fuller and I were going fish- 
ing and had gotten up about 3 o'clock to make an early start. We 
were near Gregory's corner and noticed -that it was brilliantly 
lighted, so we judged that there was a good game going on. 

"I'll bet I can break that game up," said Dick, "and I will not 
go in the building either." 

There had been a man killed near there a day or two before. 
Dick told me to hide behind the corner and watch him break 
it up. Then he took a seat on a big dry goods box near the 
corner and commenced pounding it with his heels, at the same 
time crying out, in a hoarse voice, "Woah, you scoundrel! Woah! 
you scoundrel!" Blang! Blang! he would hit the box and then 
utter that cry of distress. In a moment it sounded like a drove 
of mules coming down the steps and a whole gang of anxious 
players were on the sidewalk trying to see what the trouble was. 
They rushed up to Dick and asked what was the cause of all 
that racket. He pretended not to know what they were talking 
about and declared he had been sitting there for some time 
and had heard nothing. After looking around carefully they 
went upstairs again. In a little while Dick began the same per- 
formance and down they came with a rush. They found no horse 
kicking a buggy or wagon into kindling wood, nor could they 
see any horse at all. Dick expressed surprise at their action 
and declared that he had neither seen nor heard any horse or 
anything else cutting up as described. 

They hesitated some time and one or two decided not to go 
upstairs again and in a few minutes all came down and went 
home, no doubt convinced that they had had an experience with 
a ghost. 

Whenever I speak of gamblers and their ways I think of my 
friend "Frenchy." He was a gambler right and was never guilty 
of speaking of anything in the past tense which, as everybody 



156 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

knows, is a habit with most gamblers. One night I was talking 
to Frank La Mott about that robbery in the "Iron Clad." 
"Frenchy" came up just in time to hear me say "hold-up" in con- 
nection with the story. He concluded that we were talking 
about that time the gambling saloon was dynamited and robbed 
here in Houston, so he butted in. 

"Hell," said he, "that is no holdup. That is a bombshell. I 
am there. I am playin' bank. There's a big crowd so I can't 
get to the table. 'Limpy' George is in front of me and I have 
to reach over him to get my money down. Just as I get my 
bet placed hell breaks loose right behind me. I don't know what 
it is and I don't stay to find out. I breaks for the street and I 
thinks I'm the first one to get out, but when I hits the sidewalk 
I see 'Limpy' George goin' up the street, 20 yards in front of me, 
and he ain't got no crutches, either. I tell you that bombshell 
shore works a miracle with 'Limpy's' legs. He can't walk across 
the room without crutches before it goes off, but here he is down- 
stairs and out in the street ahead of me with my two good legs." 

If any one will read that description over carefully they will 
know "Frenchy" as well as I do. 

# w 4* •f* 

BEST FIGHTER IN THE ARMY. 

THE other day I told about James Longstreet, the famous 
mule that was the mascot of Hood's Texas Brigade. 
Soon after the article appeared I met Captain Mat Ross, 
who was a member of Company H, Fifth Texas Regiment, of that 
brigade and he jumped on me for not having mentioned another 
equally famous member of the brigade, another James Long- 
street, too. That was a little red rooster, the pride and glory 
of Company H, but the immediate property of Mat Ross and 
Major E. G. Goree, now a resident of Huntsville. 

"That rooster was the greatest little fighter in the Army of 
Northern Virginia," said Mat. "That is how he got his name. 
He would fight anything that had feathers on it and when he got 
stirred up would tackle a man or anything that got in his way. 
Why, it is a matter of regimental history that our rooster kept 
Ed Goree and me in ready money for a year or two. There was 
no rooster anywhere that could stand up in front of him. He 
whipped everything and never put on the least bit of airs over 
the fact. He got one eye knocked out in one of his battles, 
but that did not seem to interfere with his fighting qualities the 
least bit. I really believe it helped him, for it had a kind of 
demoralizing effect on the old roosters to have Jim Longstreet 
come at them with his head turned sideways so he could get a 
focus on them. They were not accustomed to that kind of an 
advance and he generally 'got their goat' before the fight lasted 
one round. We kept him in perfect condition and while we had 
no gaffs, we took charcoal and rubbed down his spurs so that 
they were always bright and sharp as needles. 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 157 

"Ed Gore and I thought as much of that rooster as though he 
had been our son. We took turns in carrying him when we were 
on the march and if we had only one handful of corn for our 
ration Jim got half of it. He was always getting in some trouble 
by being too familiar with the men. Usually he roosted on me 
or Ed Goree, but one night he took a notion to roost on Jim 
Langston, who was perfectly bald. About daylight Jim Long- 
street woke up, and, stepping over on Jim's bald head, he threw 
back his head and sounded reveille. Now if Jim had re- 
mained quiet nothing would have occurred, but instead of doing 
so he made a grab for Jim Longstreet, who, in his haste to 
get away, closed his claws and cut three or four long gashes on 
Langston's head. He jumped up and, grabbing his gun, tried 
to shoot Jim. It was all we could do to keep him from shooting 
Jim, but finally we got him quieted down. 

"When we went down to the peninsula Jim went with us and 
won a small fortune for us, for we met some North Carolina 
troops down there and they had some fighting chickens with 
them. One great secret of our success was that Jim was mighty 
deceiving in his looks. He was mild mannered and to look at 
him you would not think butter would melt in his mouth. He 
would walk about looking as if he would rather eat than do 
anything else and would actually pretend not to know what we 
were talking about when we were trying to arrange a fight. He 
was awfully cute that way. But after he found we had covered 
all the money the other fellows could rake and scrape his whole 
manner would change and he became a warrior at once. It 
would have done your heart good to see Jim going into battle 
with his head on one side so he could get a -focus on the other 
fellow with his one good eye, and picking out the exact spot 
he was going to puncture. Ed Goree and I had as much faith 
in that rooster winning as we had in General Lee, and neither 
one of them ever deceived us. We would follow Lee anywhere, 
and we would bet our last dollar on Jim Longstreet. 

"It is rather remarkable that both our favorites, Lee and Jim, 
should have met their first reverses at Gettysburg. General Lee 
had taken us into Pennsylvania and we had taken Jim Long- 
street with us, of course. When I realized what a big fight it 
was going to be at Gettysburg, I took Jim back to the commis- 
sary wagons and gave him to Jim Stanger of company A, who 
was acting commissary clerk. I told Jim that from the looks of 
things there was going to be hell to pay and that some of us 
were going to get hurt. I told him if anything happened to me 
to give Jim to Ed Goree, and that if anything happened to both 
Ed and me, that he could have the rooster, but he must promise 
to take good care of him. 

"We had been in the fight all the morning when the fire grew 
so fierce that we could hardly hold our position. So many men 
had been killed and wounded that our line was dreadfully thin 
and weak. Colonel Powers ordered me to go back and bring 
every available man to the front, even those who were wounded 



158 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

but not entirely disabled. I went back and got about twenty. I 
went as far as the wagons and there I saw Jim Stranger. He 
was almost crying and pointed to a wrecked wagon and several 
dead horses, 'Mat,' said he, 'poor Jim Longstreet is gone. A 
little while ago a stray shell landed square on that wagon and 
you see what it did. Jim was roosting in the wagon and the 
shell did not leave a grease spot of him.' 

" 'You see,' said Mat, 'Jim died the death of a soldier and 
warrior. I know that if he had been given the choice of deaths 
he would have taken what he got. After I had gone back to the 
firing line and broken the sad news to Ed Goree we lay behind 
some rocks and discussed the matter. We finally concluded that 
the shell had come up on Jim's blind side and thus caught him, 
for We knew him so well that we felt certain he would have 
gotten well out the way before it lit, had he seen it coming. 

"Jim Longstreet, the mule, was all right in his way, but at 
best he was a camp follower and loafer, while Jim Longstreet the 
rooster was an ornament to the regiment and a producer. After 
we had been camped near any other troops for a few days there 
was not a dollar left among them, for Jim would whip any chicken 
they could produce and we would rake in the money. The loss 
of Gettysburg was a sad blow to General Lee, but the loss of 
Jim Longstreet just naturally knocked the stuffin' out of Ed 
Goree and me. It was a great financial disaster." 



MIKE CONNOLY'S ESCAPE. 

A JEALOUS "bad man" with a six-shooter and a modest and 
retiring philosopher, when thrown together suddenly, are 
apt to produce complications either tragic or ludicrous. 
Some years ago such a mixture was made here in Houston, and 
caused more laughter than all the funny papers combined have 
produced since. 

Mike Connoly, poet, philosopher, expert telegrapher, electri- 
cian and all-'round newspaper man, is too well known to need 
other introduction than the mention of his name. It is true 
he has confused the situation somewhat, since leaving Houston 
and going to Memphis, by becoming a colonel and changing the 
spelling of his name. He is today Colonel Mique Connoly, though 
that is the only change in him; he is the same old Mike. 

In the early eighties Mike was chief electrician for the West- 
ern Union Telegraph Company, the office of which company was 
located on the second floor of the Fox building, corner of Main 
and Preston. 

His duties requiring him to be up at night, he had to sleep 
during the day and therefore sought a room as far away from 
the business center as possible, so as to avoid noise. After 
much search he obtained what he wanted — a room in a cottage 
situated down in "Frosttown," which was the name given that 
part of Houston down where the gas works is now located. This 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 159 

cottage was owned by a real "bad man," a killer, who was in- 
tensely jealous of his wife. Just why he should have been jeal- 
ous of her no one could understand, for she was as ugly as a 
brush fence. But he was jealous and took no pains to conceal 
the fact. 

It was late in July when Mike got located, and everything 
moved along smoothly until about the middle of August. One 
very hot Sunday night Mike, being off duty, went to his room- 
and retired early. Unfortunately, that same Sunday night the 
bad man's wife concluded to visit her mother over in the Fifth 
Ward and the bad man himself concluded to get drunk. That 
combination was hard to beat, and, as a matter of fact, it was 
not beaten. 

The bad man arrived home about midnight, and, finding no 
wife in his room, he instituted a search. Of course, he suspected 
Mike at once. Going to Mike's door and finding it locked he 
tried to kick it open. That got Mike out of bed in a hurry. The 
man, finding he could not kick the door open, drew his pistol and 
shot the lock off. But Mike was too quick for him. 

Before he could get the door open Mike was out of the win- 
dow, out in the street and was well on his way to the banks 
of the bayou. The man entered the room, shot under the bed 
and into the wardrobe, but by that time Mike had buried himself 
in the weeds on the bank of the bayou and was beginning to 
realize what a fix he was in. He was safe, but he was clad 
only in a thin summer undershirt that reached scarcely to his 
hips. Aside from that undershirt he had not a stitch of clothes 
on and he was barefooted. The moon was full and the night 
was almost as bright as day. Such a thing as returning to his 
room for his clothing never entered his head. If he could only 
get to some friend's house he knew he could get some clothes, 
but how to get anywhere was the problem. 

Finally he crept along the bank of the bayou until he reached 
the foot of Main Street, and then began working his way up 
that highway. His progress was slow, because he had to hide 
in doorways and behind barrels and boxes every time he saw any 
one coming. At last he reached the Fox building, long after 
midnight, skipped up the steps and appeared before the aston- 
ished, lone night operator. 

Mike explained the situation and persuaded the operator to 
lend him his clothes so he could get out and rustle some for 
himself. Mike, as everybody knows, is long and lank, while the 
operator was somewhat squatty. Mike had to have clothes, how- 
ever, so he forced himself into the borrowed ones and started 
out to find others. Unfortunately, he had a desire to refresh the 
inner man, so he headed for the old Capitol bar, where he knew 
the "barkeep." In the bar he met a number of his friends and 
had to tell the story of his escape and take a drink so often that 
he forgot all about the naked operator he had left in the office 
and went to bed in the hotel, oblivious to everything. He slept 
until midday, and when he awoke he realized what he had done. 



160 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

He got other clothes and hurried to the office, to find a half crazy 
operator, two-thirds suffocated, hiding himself in the battery- 
room. 

Mike was a long time squaring himself with the operator. He 
never attempted to have the bad man square himself at all. He 
sent a drayman for his trunk and sought other quarters. 

V V *•* 

UNCLE DAN AND CAPTAIN FAULKNER. 

THE other day I was talking with a lot of old printers 
when one of them recalled an incident that had escaped 
my memory completely. I have said once or twice, in 
speaking of Uncle Dan McGarey, that there was but one man on 
earth to whom Uncle Dan would tip his hat. That man was 
Captain Andy Faulkner, who had commanded Uncle Dan's com- 
pany during the war. The old fellow knew the great worth of 
the captain and knew that he was a man under all circumstances 
and conditions and he always paid the captain the utmost de- 
ference when in his presence. Of course the captain thought 
much of Uncle Dan and was constantly doing something for 
him. He liked him but that did not prevent his playing a prac- 
tical joke on Uncle Dan that nearly drove him crazy for awhile. 
Dud Bryan, Frank Small, Uncle Dan and several others of the 
Bohemian Club went to Austin one winter while the Legislature 
was in session. There was some bill affecting the railroads 
being discussed and there w^ere also several representatives of 
the railroads in Austin. Among the latter were Captain Faulk- 
ner and Major Waldo, representing the Houston and Texas 
Central road. The newspaper boys and the railroad men were 
together for a few days and then the newspaper representatives 
returned home. An exception was Uncle Dan, who could not 
be found when the party got ready to leave. Captain Faulkner 
said he would look out for him and ship him down on the next 
day's train. The truth was that Uncle Dan was out with some 
friends he had found in Austin and was painting the town a 
vivid red. Finally his friends fell by the roadside and about mid- 
night he found himself alone somewhere, he did not know where. 
He made an effort to get to the hotel where he was, nominally 
stopping, but ran against a policeman on the way. Acting just 
as he always did at home, he ordered the officer to get out of his 
way and let him pass. The policeman did not know him from 
a side of bacon, and, judging from his personal appearance that 
he was a drunken tramp, he promptly arrested him and started 
for the station house with him. That sort of brought Uncle Dan 
to his senses and he began to explain who he was and to offer 
proof of the truth of what he said if the policeman would take 
him to the hotel where his friends, Faulkner and Waldo, were 
staying. The policeman did not believe one word of the story, 
but finally concluded to stop at the hotel, as he had to pass it 
on the way to the station. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 161 

Captain Faulkner and Major Waldo were having a last cigar 
before retiring, when a bell boy announced that a policeman 
having a tramp in tow wanted to see them for a moment. They 
guessed at once who the tramp was and told the boy to bring 
the policeman and his prisoner in their parlor. In came Uncle 
Dan, looking as bright and happy at the prospect of release as 
it would be possible for him to do. As soon as the policeman 
opened his mouth to explain, Uncle Dan cut him short and ad- 
dressed Captain Faulkner himself. 

"You see. Captain," he said, "this man has made a mistake 
and pinched me. Tell him who I am and let him go." 

"Tell him who you are?" asked the captain, looking Uncle 
Dan straight in the face without batting an eye. "I never saw 
you before. Take him out of here, officer, and lock him up." 

Uncle Dan could scarcely believe his own ears. He was too 
far gone to realize that he was being made the victim of a joke 
and he concluded that either the captain or he himself had gone 
stark mad. 

The policeman chuckled, and grabbing Uncle Dan by the 
collar, commenced dragging him out of the room. The poor old 
fellow was too surprised and indignant to say a word until he 
got nearly to the door when he concluded to make a last stand 
and a last appeal. Captain Faulkner waived him away and 
pretended to be intensely indignant that such a looking creature 
as Uncle Dan should dare to claim to be a friend of his. "Take 
him out of here and take him in a hurry, too," he said to the 
officer. "I am surprised that an officer of any intelligence 
should listen to such a story as he has been telling you. Take 
him away and lock him up." 

Then the captain turned his back on the officer and his pris- 
oner and pretended to resume his conversation with Major 
"Waldo. So soon as the door was closed they fell over in con- 
vulsive laughter, for either of them would have paid good money 
for a chance to play such a trick on Uncle Dan. Half an hour 
later they sent a note to the chief of police to release Uncle 
Dan and tell him to come to their hotel at once. They waited 
in vain for him, for he caught the next freight train out of 
Austin and the next time either of them saw him was weeks 
later when he showed up on Main Street in Houston. He was 
so indignant that he threatened to write both of them up in 
the Age, but Captain Faulkner threatened to give a full account 
of Dan's Austin experience to Dud Bryan for use in the Gal- 
veston News and that scared Uncle Dan off. 

4i 4i 1^ 

POKER SUPERSTITIONS. 

PEOPLE laugh at the negroes for being superstitious, and 
I suppose when all the returns are in they are justified 
in doing so. However, if the most superstitious and ig- 
norant negro can beat the average well-educated white man 
who plays poker, then I am willing to quit. 



162 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

I remember years ago, when I was young and giddy, "sittin' 
in" with a lot of professional men. There was one, a young 
doctor, one of the honor graduates, who had tough luck from 
the start. First he blamed his seat. Then he discovered that 
the man next to him had his foot on his chair. Then he located 
his hoodoo in the coat; then in his vest; then in a nice pink 
shirt he was wearing. One by one he discarded these garments, 
but his bad luck continued. 

Just as he was about going further in his disrobing his luck 
changed and he began to win. "I knew it was that shirt," said 
he, and, that being the last garment he had taken off, he 
promptly ordered the negro boy who was waiting on us to put 
it in the stove and burn it up. 

Some very funny things result from the active display of 
poker superstitions, as every one with the least experience 
knows. I remember once in Galveston, before the electric cars 
were established and the old horse and mule motive power was 
used, I was in the oar with a very distinguished newspaper man, 
who was a bit of a sport. 

There was no conductor, the driver ringing up the fares as 
they were deposited in the box by the passenger. There wei e 
two cords extending the length of the car, one to notify the 
driver when a passenger wished to get off and the other to 
register the fares. 

We were in the midst of an interesting conversation when 
the distinguished journalist leaped to his feet, grabbed the rope 
and began a series of most vigorous jerks, shouting at the same 
time for the driver to stop. In his excitement he got hold of 
the wrong rope and before the wild-eyed driver could get to 
him and release the rope from hand he had rung up about $14 
worth of fares against the driver. 

I looked out ahead and saw a funeral passing down the inter- 
secting street just ahead of us. 

"Why, that fellow liked to ruin me," he said to me. "He was 
going to pull us right through that funeral. I had that to happen 
to me once and I never held a thing for six months." 

He was quiet now that the great disaster had been averted, 
but the driver was gone "off his nut" completely when he looked 
at the register and recognized that he was a financial wreck 
unless my friend paid for all those fares he had registered. I 
am convinced that he would have deserted the car right there 
in the street and never gone back to the barn again if my friend 
had not volunteered to go with him to Colonel Sinclair, the 
president of the company, and explain matters to him. 

The driver readily agreed to that arrangement and since the 
returns had been tampered with and the box stuffed it gave him 
a splendid chance to fix the genuine figures at any point he 
pleased, which no doubt he did to his own personal advantage. 

Another friend of mine, who is an educated man and who no 
doubt ridicules negro superstition, will abandon any business 
enterprise he may be engaged in and will not resume it again 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 163 

that day if he meets a cross-eyed woman face to face. He claims 
that such a meeting is absolutely fatal and that every particle 
of luck abandons him right then and there. 

Now the strange part of the matter is that not one of the 
superstitious men has the slightest respect for the pet super- 
stition of any of the others. Each fellow will ridicule every 
other superstition except his own. He feels that he has the 
only genuine article. 

Any one who has "fooled with cards" knows that there is 
such a thing as luck, in spite of the fact that it can be demon- 
strated mathematically that there is no such thing. With mathe 
maticians chance does not exist. For instance, when a per- 
fectly fair dice has been thrown and has. shown "six," or any- 
thing else, for fmir tipies hand running, it will be mighty hard 
to keep a gambler from betting odds that the number will not 
show up again. I mean by odds more than the legitimate odds 
of 5 to 1. 

There are six sides to a dice, therefore there is one chance 
in six of the same number showing again, and yet any gambler 
will be willing to give greater odds than that after the number 
has shown even twice consecutively. As a matter of fact, all 
the throws that have been made have not the least influence 
on those to follow, so the odds remain as they were at the be- 
ginning, 5 to 1. 

Now the mathematicians can prove all that, but what I would 
like for them to prove is that there is no good or bad luck 
when a fellow one night makes every hand he draws to and 
the next night can't hold a thing and loses every time he backs 
his hand. If it is not luck, what is it? Is it that great mystery 
the mathematicians have recently evolved called the fourth, 
dimension, by which they can explain things that have no ex- 
istence and have a man in jail and outside of it at the same 
time? 

♦ * 4" 

CAPTAIN ANDY FAULKNER. 

EVERYBODY remembers Captain Andy Faulkner, for he 
has been dead for such a few number of years that 
maybe some of the new-issue Houstonians remember 
him. He was a man not easily forgotten, for his individuality 
was such as to stamp itself indelibly on any community. He 
was for many years general passenger agent of the Houston 
and Texas Central Railroad. His love for and devotion to that 
road was sublime. You could say mean things about the 
captain, behind his back, and there was a chance for you to 
escape the consequences of your indiscretion. The chance was 
very remote, I admit, but still there was a chance, for the cap- 
tain might forget it before he caught you. But if you said any- 
thing mean about the Houston and Texas Central, you were 
doomed, for the captain took no chances about forgetting; he 
had it penciled in black and white. He had all the Texas news- 



164 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

papers sent to his office, and had a clerk who did nothing but 
read those papers and clip out every line that made reference 
to the railroad and paste it in a big scrap-book he kept for that 
purpose. This book was properly indexed, so the captain had 
no trouble to turn to the record of any particular paper at once. 
When an editor applied for a pass the captain looked over what 
he had said about his road during the year, and if there was any- 
thing against the road in the book, the pass was refused and 
the editor was referred to his own paper, such and such a date, 
for the reasons. 

Captain Faulkner and Colonel Bill Sterrett were warm per- 
sonal friends to the day of the captain's death, but professedly 
they were at daggers' points and if Colonel Sterrett wanted to 
reach any point on the Houston and Texas Central road he had 
either to dig up his cold cash for a ticket or walk. The colonel 
had so far forgotten himself as to refer to the captain's road 
as "the angel maker," because of the frequent and fatal wrecks 
that were taking place on it. That settled him. Captain Faulk- 
ner placed him on his black list in box car letters and kept him 
there. Colonel Sterrett got no more favors, nor did he ask 
for any. He practically kept his reference to the Houston and 
Texas Central as "the angel makers" as standing matter and 
ran it in nearly every issue of the paper. 

One or two papers were silly enough to copy Colonel Ster- 
rett's remarks and make some of their own. They also went 
on the black-list. Colonel Nat Q. Henderson was among the 
erring ones. He was living in Georgetown, but happened to be 
in Austin and wanted to come to Houston, so he wrote to 
Captain Faulkner asking for a pass. The captain looked up 
his record and found that it was generally good and that he 
had sinned but slightly. But he wanted to punish him, so he 
sent him a pass "good from Austin to Hempstead and return." 
Colonel Henderson glanced at the pass and without reading it 
boarded the train for Houston. He did not discover the trick 
until he got to Hempstea,d and the conductor refused to let 
him come farther without a ticket or .pass. They had to wait 
some time at Hempstead for the main line train, so Colonel 
Henderson persuaded the conductor that Captain Faulkner had 
made an error and had written Hempstead instead of Houston, 
as he should have done. He got the conductor to telegraph to 
the captain for instructions what to do. The answer came back: 
"Make Henderson pay fare or put him off." He paid and came 
to Houston, in no good humor, however. 

But I did not start to tell of Captain Faulkner as a railroad 
man. What I wanted to speak of was his remarkable gift as a 
story-teller. He had a fine sense of humor, and was one of 
the best talkers I ever knew. In 1883 nearly every Sunday night 
Tobe Mitchell, Colonel O. T. Holt, Colonel Sye Oberly and I 
would sit out in front of the Capitol Hotel, now the Rice, and 
listen to Captain Faulkner talk for hours. He was always full 
of good, clean, healthy stories and told them in the most charm- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 165 

ing manner. I remember quite a number of very funny ones he 
told, but about the best was one he used to tell on himself. 

He said he was in one of the fashionable barrooms in Austin 
with a number of friends one evening when he noticed two 
rather seedy-looking fellows eyeing each other keenly. Finally 
one advanced to the other and said: 

"Was yo at the battle of Gettysburg?" 

The other seedy fellow said he was. 

"When yo rebs drove the Pennsylvania troops back, going to 
Little Round Top, did you pick a wounded Yankee boy up and 
put him behind some rocks?" 

The other fellow became much agitated and said he did. 

"I was the boy you picked up and I knew you as soon as I 
saw you come in and have been trying to place you." 

With that they fell into each other's arms and embraced warm- 
ly, after which they shook hands over and over. Finally each 
dug down in his pocket, but found nothing. "If I had any money 
with me," said the Yankee, "we shore would have a drink over 
this." 

The captain said it was all very touching. He had been a 
soldier himself and knew what such meetings as this meant, 
so he slipped the Confederate a dollar and told him to treat 
his friend. But the other gentlemen who had witnessed the 
scene were also touched and became deeply interested and in- 
sisted on buying an unlimited number of drinks for the two old 
war horses, with the result that the two got so drunk and 
boisterous that the saloon man had to put them out. 

The captain said that a month or two later he was in Dallas 
and went into a saloon for the purpose of getting a drink. 
There was a crowd near the bar and as he entered he heard a 
familiar voice say: 

"Was you at the battle of Gettysburg?" 

He looked and saw the two old "heroes" go through the same 
scene he had witnessed in Austin. Then he realized that they 
were two old bums, who had invented this plan for getting free 
whiskey from a sympathetic crowd. It worked, too, just as it 
had done in Austin, and as it no doubt worked in every place 
they visited. 

I think Captain Faulkner was the only man "Uncle" Dan 
McGary ever took off his hat to. "Uncle Dan" held him in the 
highest regard and esteem, because he knew him. He had 
served in the captain's company during the war. The captain 
also had a warm place in his heart for "Uncle Dan." He said 
"Uncle Dan" was one of the best soldiers he had and one who 
could always be depended on. He told a story of an old fellow 
who was a Union sympathizer and who refused to sell anything 
to the Confederate soldiers. The old fellow had lots of corn, but 
would not give or sell any of it to the Confederates, and as he 
was a fiery old chap and backed his refusal with a double-barreled 
shotgun there were only two things to do: kill him or give up 
all hope of getting com. One day Captain Faulkner told "Uncle 



166 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Dan" to take a wagon and go over and buy a load of corn from 
this old fellow. He gave him the money to pay for it and told 
him to avoid all trouble, but to get the corn if possible. After 
a very short time "Uncle Dan" came back with the corn and the 
money, too. 

"Oh, he didn't raise any objection when I commenced loading 
up the wagon," said "Uncle Dan." 

"How was that?" inquired the captain, 

"Well," said "Uncle Dan," "as soon as he showed up with his 
gun I took it as a declaration of war and I pied him right then 
and there. I knew I would have to do it before our interview 
closed, so I didn't waste any time, but plugged him and argued 
the matter with myself afterward." 

"I* 4» 4» 

MIXED TEXAS HISTORY. 

THE other day I was in a Main Street store making a small 
purchase. The young man who waited on me was an 
intelligent looking chap and was as talkative as the 
proverbial barber. I did not know him but he knew me, and 
after discussing the paving question and kindred matters he 
made pleasing reference to some of my articles in the Chronicle, 
saying he had enjoyed reading them very much. 

"I read your article on the battle of San Jacinto," he said. "It 
was fine and I enjoyed reading it very much. I was greatly sur- 
prised to find that Col. Hamp Cook was as old as that makes 
him out to be. Let's see, the battle of San Jacinto was fought 
in 1861, was it not?" 

I thought he was joking, of course, but a glance at him con- 
vinced me that he was in dead earnest, so I said: "Oh, no, the 
battle was fought in 1873." 

"Why, of course. What was I thinking about? It was the 
battle of the Alamo that was fought in 1861. Somehow I always 
get the two mixed up." 

Now, that remarkable interview actually took place just as I 
have described it. One marvels at such ignorance of Texas his- 
tory, yet that ignorance is more general than anyone imagines. 
To the credit of the Texas boys I am glad to be able to record 
the fact that the young clerk was not a Texan but had come 
to Houston a year or two ago from Chicago. I have never met 
a Texas boy who could not tell all about the Alamo and San 
Jacinto. 

Last winter I met with a more remarkable example of ig- 
norance than my clerk exhibited. It was in San Antonio at the 
Gunter Hotel. There was a large party of excursionists going 
to California. They stopped over in San Antonio for a day. In 
the party was a young man who had just been graduated from 
one of the theological schools in Massachusetts. He was on his 
way to some place between Los Angeles and San Francisco to 
take charge of a church. He was an Episcopalian and was well 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTANIANS 167 

educated in everything except Texas history. We took a walk 
and when we reached the plaza I pointed out the Alamo to him, 

"Really, I am ashamed to ask the question, but what is the 
Alamo and what does it stand for?" he said. 

I thought he was trying to make fun of me at first, but a 
glance at his face showed me that he was seriously seeking in- 
formation. With such a text; with the Alamo itself in front of 
me, I was able to make rather a good talk and when I finished 
up with San Jacinto, my young preacher was about as enthusias- 
tic over Texas history as I was. We returned to the hotel and 
after lunch he asked me to go with him to the smoking room. 
When we got there I found that he had gathered about a dozen 
of his traveling companions and after making a short talk himself 
he begged me to repeat what I had told him about the Alamo 
and San Jacinto for the benefit of his friends. 

For the first time in my life I found myself lecturing on his- 
tory. I began with Bradburn's misdeeds at Anahuac in 1831, 
which really started the Texas Revolution and ended with San 
Jacinto. They were all greatly interested in what I told them and 
I was intensely proud of being a native of a state which has 
such a history. The preacher became enthusiastic again and 
before he left the city he purchased every book he could find 
that had any Texas history in it. 

It seems strange to us that there should be anybody ignorant 
about our state's history, and yet the average Texan is about 
as ignorant of the history of most of the other states of the 
Union. It is true that no other state has a history so striking 
and so worthy of being known, yet some of them do have worthy 
histories and the average Texan knows no more about them than 
those northern gentlemen knew about Texas. 

I suppose the self confessed ignorance of the Massachusetts 
gentlemen is more general and widespread than is supposed, for 
those who do not know what the Alamo is are wise enough not 
to admit the fact, but keep their mouths closed until they inform 
themselves. That is the way, I know I would do if I visited Mas- 
sachusetts and any point or incident in the state's history came 
up for discussion about which I knew nothing. 

The Alamo has always been an incentive to Texans urging 
them to the performance of deeds of patriotism and valor, and 
at times it has been something of a heavy handicap. Everybody 
remembers the speech made by President Davis at the breaking 
out of our great war to the Texas troops in the Army of North- 
ern Virginia. "The troops from other states," he said, "have 
reputations to make; you Texans have one to sustain." 



EARLY NEWSPAPER MEN. 

WHO among the oldtime newspaper men does not remem- 
ber Dr. McBride? There was a yellow journalist that 
would make some of the yellow of today look like 
pure white. The doctor simply lived thirty years too soon. Had 



168 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

he been of today he could have commanded his own salary, and 
Hearst would have gone down on his knees to get him on any 
of his papers. 

He was the Texas representative of the St. Louis Globe-Demo- 
crat, which made a special feature of crimes in Texas, They 
could not have gotten a better man than he, for he had absolute 
genius in handling such matters. He could take an ordinary item, 
such as an exchange of shots between gentlemen, which would 
be dismissed with a few paragraphs today and turn out a couple 
of columns of as sensational and readable stuff as anyone could 
wish to see. The doctor got to be a monomaniac on the subject 
of crime. He thought of nothing else, and with him no other 
Item had even the flavor of news. Tell- him that a syndicate 
was going to build a million dollar hotel and ttfe chances were 
that he would forget it before he had gone a block, but tell him 
that a negro bootblack had used a razor on a competitor and he 
would run all over town to get the details, or the hints for details 
to be supplied. I met him one afternoon and he was in great 
good humor: "The old town is waking up," he said. "Things 
are beginning to boom. Why, I got a suicide and a murder this 
afternoon and I haven't had two such good items in a long time." 
Just that little remark will show you what kind of a reporter 
he was. 

Very frequently the doctor furnished some of the sensations 
himself, for he published the news as he found it, painted and 
exaggerated, of course. He spared no one, and, of course, was 
frequently in hot water. It is an actual fact that on one occasion 
there was a woman with a bull whip in her hand on one corner, 
a banker with a six-shooter on another corner and a policeman 
with a club further down the street, all waiting for the doctor, 
because he had written them up in the Globe-Democrat. Now, 
the funny part of it was that the doctor, totally oblivious to 
the fact that there was so much war fixed for him, just at that 
very time, was engaged in a knock down and drag out with little 
Quick, a reporter on the Age, not two blocks from where his 
friends were waiting for him. The trouble between the doctor 
and Quick had no connection with the St. Louis paper, but it 
surely saved the doctor arlot of trouble that morning. I believe 
the woman and the banker did catch him afterward, but they 
had had time to cool off and were not so enthusiastic as they 
would have been while the grievance was fresh on their minds. 

When I was about six years old a German stabbed his wife in 
the street and she was taken into my grandfather's house and 
died in his dining room. The man was convicted and sent to 
the penitentiary for life. Thirty years afterward he was par- 
doned. One of the newspapers mentioned the location of the 
murder and also mentioned the fact that the woman died in my 
grandfather's house. Dr. McBride hunted me up at once. I told 
him all I knew, which was simply the fact that she was stabbed 
and brought into the house and died a few minutes afterward. 
That was enough for him. He got three columns of as magnifl- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 169 

cent reading matter out of it as you ever saw. Old Uncle Dick 
Wescott was running the Age at that time and was perfectly 
familiar with all the details of the crime. He went for the 
doctor hot-footed and heaped ridicule and scorn on his head, but 
he might as well have poured water on a duck's back. The doc- 
tor was simply incorrigible. 

Another great character of that same time was Colonel Charley 
Martin, who was city editor on the Telegram. He was of a 
different type, and he had nothing of the sensational or startling 
about him. He was a good newspaper man and a dignified gen- 
tleman. He was a scrapper from away back, which made for 
his success, for in those days there were no convenient managing 
editors to stand sponsor for everything in the paper, but every 
reporter had to fight for his own items. 

Charley soon established a "reputation" and after that he had 
clear sailing, and his whole career might have been one of dig- 
nity and success to the end but for an accident. 

One cold winter night, after a hard day's work, the colonel 
sought pleasure, relaxation and, incidentally a warm place, at the 
theatre. Milt Noble was playing "Phoenix" at Perkins Hall and 
there was a big audience there. The house being full the man- 
ager gave the colonel a box all to himself. He watched the play 
for a few minutes, then being weary and the seat in the box 
being very comfortable, he promptly went to sleep. He was 
snoring away peacefully, when a noise on the stage brought him 
to earth and he opened his eyes on the famous fire scene. He 
did not know for a moment where he was. All he knew was 
that the house was on fire, and yelling "Fire!" "Fire!" at the top 
of his voice, he leaped out of the box onto the stage. The au- 
dience thought it was part of the play and applauded loudly, 
but Charley knew better. He slipped out of a side door and left 
town the next morning before the story got out. He went to 
Dallas and did not come back to Houston for ten years. 

* ^ * 

PROOF THAT FLIES THINK. 

BEING somewhat bald I have had rather more difficulty and 
trouble with flies than the average man. They have acted 
meanly with me, too, and at times, have actually gone 
out of their way to annoy me. I have read all about their spread- 
ing disease and of how filthy they are and furthermore I know 
that everything that has been said to their disparagement is 
true, yet in the face of all this I have learned to admire and to 
almost honor the fly. I have discovered that they have sense 
just like folks and that they have a fine appreciation of the hu- 
morous side of things. 

Not long ago they formed the habit of coming in my room and 
sitting on my bed waiting for me to try to take my afternoon 
nap. I got a towel and went for them. They simply dodged, 
laughed and made such a lot of fly racket that others from the 



170 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

outside came to see the fun and having come, stayed to join in 
the play. 

Those flies thought I was playing tag with them and they 
entered into the spirit of the game in a whole-hearted way that 
discouraged me. Actually my efforts to kill them with a towel 
increased their number and I gave up in despair. One day I 
spoke of my trouble to a friend and he suggested that I go to 
the drug store and get a "swat the fly," a piece of iron screen 
hitched to a handle. As he explained, the wind from my towel 
blew the fly aside before the towel reached him and that is why 
the fly enjoyed the game so much, knowing he was in no danger 
and that he was exhausting me by hanging around and encourag- 
ing me to hit him with the towel. "Well, I got the swat thing 
and laid for my flies. So soon as I made out I was going to 
take a nap, they put in an appearance, abandoning everything 
else they were doing to devote themselves to me. But I fooled 
them. Two settled down on the bed and pretended not to be 
noticing me, sat there as if it were they who were going to take 
a nap instead of I. I brought down my swat thing on them and 
as there was no wind to warn them I got both of them. Others 
came and others fell, too, and for half an hour I had everything 
going my way. I killed every fly in sight and. having become 
bloodthirsty by now I hunted for more. Some who had seen the 
slaughter and retreated must have spread the news, for I longed 
for more flies to swat, none came. They would come as far 
as the window and look in but you could not hire a fly to enter 
the room and strut around as they had all been doing. 

Having thus been brought in such close communication with 
flies I learned to respect them greatly. I also learned that they 
are keen observers and that having seen a thing once they rec- 
ognize it thereafter. Now sometimes when I am absent the 
flies will take things easy just as they used to do. They even 
go so far as to ignore my presence completely and pay no at- 
tention to me at all. But they watch me closely and stand pre- 
pared to act promptly. When I get ready to clear the room of 
their presence, I do not exert myself at all. I merely pick up 
my swat the fly machine and they leave in a body. 

Learned professors may argue that flies can't reason and that 
they can't talk, but I want those professors to explain to me how 
those flies know the difference between a towel which gives 
warning of its approach and the wire contraption that gives none. 
Furthermore, how do the flies inform each other that I have 
picked up the swatter? They can't all be watching me at the 
same time and yet every one of them departs at the sight of the 
swatter. As a matter of fact, I have not been able to get near 
a fly with my swatter in a week and if I want a quiet nap 
all I have to do is to place the swatter on the bed where the 
flies can look in the window and see it and not one will venture 
In the room. 

I don't know anything about flyology, if there is such a thing, 
but I do know that a fly has as much sense as a man about 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 171 

Bome things and that the fellow who takes Mr. Fly for a fool 
is almost one himself. 

Now, the concerted action on the part of flies when I pick 
up my swatter, precludes any other idea than that flies can 
talk. If I could hear and understand their language I am con- 
fident I would hear some old fellow call out: "Git He's got 
his swatter. This is no place for us!" When you see dozens 
of them take wing as one fly and rush out of the window, you 
can safely bet that something like that has been said by one 
of their pickets and that they have acted promptly on the warn- 
ing. 

This is not written to fill space but is a record of actual oc- 
currences and of the evidence of high intelligence of the fly. 
He has simply got more sense than anybody credits him with 
having. 

V V V 

JIM AND SHORTY. 

MY FIRST meeting and acquaintance with those kings of 
Bohemian printers, if there are any such things, 
"Shorty" Parish and Jim Baker, dates from the sum- 
mer of 1880. I had just begun newspaper work and was in the 
editorial room of the Post late one night when "Shorty" and 
Jim came in. They had evidently been in luck, for they were 
pretty well loaded and were in the best of humor. 

"So you are going to run a newspaper," said "Shorty." "You 
are making a big mistake. There's nothing in it. Quit it 
while you've got time. It eats up more money than anything in 
the world. A newspaper is the only thing that ever beat the 
devil and that is the only good thing I ever heard about one of 
them. Yes, I'll tell you how it was. A man sold his soul to the 
devil for all the money he could spend, the devil to produce 
every Saturday night. That man sure had a good time. He 
spent money for everything he could think of, but the devil al- 
ways had the cash on Saturday night. The man built railroads, 
ship canals, erected big dams and went into every big thing he 
could hear of, but the devil always promptly paid the bills. The 
man got desperate, for the time was drawing near for him to 
settle with the devil. One day he established a newspaper, just 
as you and Gail Johnson are doing. The first and second pay- 
ments were made promptly by the devil, but the old chap 
began to look blue. In a few months the devil asked for a 
little extension of time and at the end of the next week he 
gave up the job altogether and tore up the contract. Now that's 
a true story and you better take warnmg from it." 

"Shorty" then asked for what he called "brain food," which 
was his name for newspapers, and taking a large bundle of 
exchanges, he waddled away in company with Jim Baker. 

These were the two most distinguished members of the 
"bummers" crowd that ever graced Houston, Galveston and other 
Texas cities, where there was any printing to be done. They 



172 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

were fine printers, regular experts, but they worked only spas- 
modically, and when they were forced to do so by stern ne- 
cessity. There were no type-setting machines in those days. 
The old fashioned printer set type by hand. Both Jim and 
"Shorty" were good members of the union and could always 
get at least a day or two's work in any union office and that 
was all either of them wanted. 

"Shorty" was in constant trouble with the barkeepers. He 
would show up frequently minus a hat or coat, which articles 
of wearing apparel had been ruthlessly seized by some irate 
saloon man in liquidation of his bar bill. About 1882 "Shorty" 
went to Galveston and Major Lowe performed the miracle of 
sobering him up. Then the most wonderful things occurred. 
"Shorty" turned out to be an exquisite, a regular dude. He 
broke out in broadcloth, patent leather boots, stovepipe hat, kid 
gloves and gold-headed cane. He was sober so long that he 
was made foreman of the News composing room. It was really 
a treat to see him walk down Tremont or Market Street. He 
was a good looking little fellow and for about a year was the 
envy of the men and the admiration of the ladies. One night 
he was tempted and fell. His glory departed like a summer 
cloud, just faded away, and the old bum printer was in full swing 
before the end of the week. "Shorty" never attempted to regain 
a new foothold, but went down with flying colors, the colors he 
had chosen. He went to the News office and got an armful of 
"brain food" one afternoon and about 9 o'clock that night 
some one going to his room found him sitting in his chair with 
his glasses on, a newspaper spread out on his knee, stone dead. 

Jim Baker was somewhat different from "Shorty." He never, 
for one thing, ever quit drinking voluntarily. When he quit 
there was a cause, other than moral. He had a voice that would 
have been worth a fortune for an ambitious tragedian. It was a 
grand voice and when he would repeat a poem or some extract 
from one of Bob Ingersoll's speeches, it was worth listening to. 
He was a great schemer and could get a quart of whiskey 
where "Shorty" could not get a drink. One of the amusing 
things I remember about, him was once when he tried to work 
the Rev. Mr. Clemens, rector of Christ Church. Mr. Clemens 
was one of the best and most tender-hearted men and was always 
eager to respond to an appeal for assistance. He was in the 
Post editorial room one night when Jim rushed in with the re- 
quest for a half dollar, saying that he was hungry and had not 
eaten for two days. Mr. Clemens listened to his tale of woe 
and then, taking him by the arm, hurried him down to a res- 
taurant and told the man to give Jim the biggest supper he 
could fix up. Mr. Clemens took a seat to see Jim enjoy the meal. 
It was brought, but Jim could not eat a mouthful of it. He made 
a clean breast to Mr. Clemens and never tried to impose on that 
gentleman again for drinks. Mr. Clemens forgave him his de- 
ception and gave him an order for a night's lodging at a nearby 
boarding house. Jim actually needed the bed, so he took the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 173 

order. Instead of going to the place at once, he got drunk and 
went there about midnight. He had gotten an idea In his head 
that he owned the place by that time, so when he descended on 
the boarding place, he did so like a whirlwind and kicked up 
such a row that the police were called in and they locked him 
up. Poor fellow. He, too, is dead and gone. He died in Dallas 
several years ago, keeping up his record and beating "Shorty" 
to the grave. 

<|i •{• •!> 

A LIVELY ELECTION. 

I HEAR that Houston is going to have an election next 
summer and that already the pot is beginning to boil. It 
may boil until it runs over, but it can never reach one-tenth 
the heat and animation that characterized our elections in recon- 
struction days. Those were the hot times, sure enough, and no 
mistake about it. There was no Australian ballot, no registra- 
tion, nor any of the modern devices to check an unlimited ex- 
ercise of the franchise. A fellow could vote as many times as 
he had nerve to do so, and if he took care to vote "right" when 
the right crowd was around he could get away with it. 

About the most strenuous election that was ever pulled off in 
those strenuous days was the one held in 1873 or 1874, I forget 
the exact date. Mr. William R. Baker was the Democratic 
nominee for the State Senate, and Colonel John T. Brady was 
supported by the Republicans, though avowedly running as an in- 
dependent. Early in the action it became evident that the candi- 
dates who could get the most outside voters here would carry 
the day. The Republicans sent out their agents with dragnets 
and secured a large number of negroes from Fort Bend, Brazoria 
and adjoining counties. Some of these came in a week or two 
before election day and hung around attending torchlight pro- 
cessions and political meetings, but the bulk of the negroes 
were held in reserve to show up the day before and on election 
day. 

The Democrats were apparently snowed under, for they gave 
no indication of doing anything to overcome the black overflow. 
It looked blue for "Billy" Baker and he apparently had no more 
chance than a snowball in that unmentionable place. The night 
before election the Democrats had a torchlight procession and 
public speaking, but that was done apparently more for appear- 
ance than anything else. 

But Billy Baker, who was president of the Houston and Texas 
Central Railroad, had a card up his sleeve that was worth all 
those the Republicans were playing so openly. On the morning 
of the election trains began to arrive at the Central Depot from 
stations as far north as Denison, and every train had a full load 
of section men and other railroad employes who had come to 
Houston to vote for "the boss." Every one claimed Houston as 
his home and every one voted for Baker, not once but as many 
times and under as many names as he could. Baker was elected. 



174 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

of course, but even with the enthusiastic support of the Irish 
brigade he was elected by the skin of his teeth. His majority 
was so small that it was scarcely worth the name. It would 
be a most difficult task for any mathematician to figure out 
just what Brady's majority would have been if Mr. Baker had 
not thought of his Irishmen. 

He could not have secured a better following or one more de- 
termined to assert their "rights" than those Irishmen. They 
could not be browbeaten or intimidated, and took pleasure in 
bulldozing the negro voters, who showed good sense by keep- 
ing out of their way as much as possible. That was one day 
and one election on which Uncle Dick Wescott was in his ele- 
ment and perfectly happy. He had things going his way from 
start to finish. It took several days to get the imported Irish 
voters out of town. There were special trains that left on 
schedvile time to take them back, but they stayed to enjoy the 
fruits of their victory, and they had a good time, too. 

The next time Mr. Baker forgot to bring the Irish brigade, 
or thought he could win without their help, and he got left. 
Colonel Brady beat him, but by only a small majority, as the 
negro vote also was rather lacking and lukewarm, owing to the 
vigilance of the white voters. The sheriff was after some of 
the leaders for various crimes, and they were afraid to show 
up in Houston. 

I know all such statements as these sound queer to the present 
generation of voters, but they must remember that it was a 
case of fighting the devil with fire, and a death struggle for white 
supremacy. The most honorable men recognized that it was 
right to do any and every thing short of actual murder to carry 
their point and they did not hesitate to do it. 

Major Lowe used to tell of an election in Louisiana, when the 
Democratic manager telegraphed to an eminent lawyer and fine 
gentleman who lived in an out-of-the-way precinct, telling him 
he must send in returns showing 450 Democratic majority. A 
day or two after he got a letter in which the gentleman informed 
the manager that he had done what he had been told to do, but 
that it was a rather difficult task, as there were only thirty-five 
votes in that precinct. 

Now, it must not be forgotten that the Republicans were doing 
exactly the same things and that it was simply a question of 
who could do the most of it. 

"f* V V 

HOW THE RABBIT-FOOT WORKED. 

PROFESSOR PROCTOR in one of his essays draws atten- 
tion to the fact that there is as much superstition involved 
in combating a superstition as there is in hanging to it. 
He says that the man who holds that a ship that sails on a Friday 
will have a prosperous voyage is just as superstitious in one 
direction as the man who claims that the ship will have bad 
luck if it sails on a Friday. When one thinks of it Proctor is 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 175 

right, for both the good and the bad are problematical and each 
is likely to prevail. Therefore it is just as superstitious to be- 
lieve in the good as in the bad, so far as the influence of Friday 
is concerned. 

But I am not going to write about superstition from a scientific 
viewpoint, but am going to tell of some of the pet superstitions 
of some of my friends. I doubt if there are many telegraph 
operators except Colonel Phil Fall and Colonel D. P. Shepherd 
who remember little Jack Graham, the best operator and the 
gamest sport that ever handled a telegraph key or bet on a four- 
flush. Jack loved a "quiet little game" better than anything on 
earth and would have resigned the presidency of the Western 
Union had it come between him and a nice game. He was not a 
plunger, but loved a small game better than he loved to eat, and 
could always be counted on to take a hand when anything was 
doing. 

In those days there were a number of us who had more money 
than sense, so we organized a small club and we had regular 
Saturday night games, which generally extended over until nearly 
daylight Monday morning. Jack was always there and among 
the first to get there, too. As I have said, it was a small game, 
and being table stakes, it was a safe game as well. 

One Saturday night we had been playing for some time and 
Jack was having the most outrageous luck. Every hand he got 
he found that some one had a larger. He had visited the "lamp 
post" (which in plain English means that he had gone out and 
floated a check or borrowed some money) two or three times 
and was fast losing his patience as well as his wealth. He got 
cranky and tried all the tricks of a poker game to change his 
luck. He swapped seats, turned his chair around, and did every- 
thing else he could think of. It was no use, and he continued 
to lose. Finally, after about the fourth visit to the "lamp post" 
he found he had misplaced his bag of tobacco and, searching 
for it through his pockets, he found a rabbit foot that he had 
put away and forgotten all about. You should have seen the 
smile that lit up his countenance when he found that foot. It 
restored his confidence and he was a new man at once. He 
came back and, taking his seat, he carefully dusted every one 
of his chips and then heaped them over the rabbit-foot. 

"Watch me do you wolves now," he said. "From this moment 
you are my meat." 

Actually, I felt sorry to see an intelligent man give way so 
blindly to superstition as Jack was doing, for he showed abso- 
lute confidence in the potency of his talisman. He did not 
have a doubt. 

Four or five hands were played with no features of interest 
about any of them, as a rule the opener taking the pot without 
opposition. Finally I skinned my hand and found four eights 
pat. A man named Bright just ahead of me opened the pot and 
I simply trailed. When it reached Jack he came in and tilted 
the opener modestly. One other man came in, but merely stood 



176 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Jack's raise. Bright stood the raise without tilting it and I 
"saw" Jack and doubled the pot as a raise. I was so certain 
of the pot that I did not want to scare anybody out. Jack 
"saw" my raise, but went no further; the man next to him 
dropped out, but Bright played, thus leaving three of us in the 
game. On the draw Bright took two cards, I took one; to our 
great surprise Jack took three, showing that he had only one 
pair. 

Without looking at his draw. Bright threw a blue chip in the 
pot. I simply "saw" Bright's bet, but when it came to Jack he 
tilted the pot away up yonder. I was certain that Bright had 
opened on a set of threes and I was praying for him to catch a 
pair and make a "full house," but he evidently did not do so, 
for he hesitated a long time about calling Jack's bet. The pot 
was now large enough for me to take an interest in it, and so I 
played my hand. I "saw" all that was in the pot and gave it 
a substantial boost. Jack instantly .sized up my chips and then 
set in a stack more. I felt certain that Jack had come in on 
kings or aces and had caught his third man. Bright threw down 
his openers, three sixes, and quit. The play was now up to me. 
I knew the pot was mine and I hated to beat Jack further, but I 
saw a chance to beat him and at the same time teach him a 
lesson about the folly of depending on superstition in a poker 
game. I looked at him and said: 

"Jack, you are in bad luck, and I hate to pound a loser, but 
I am going to teach you a lesson and impoverish you at the 
same time. I tap you," saying which I shoved all my chips into 
the pot. 

Jack liked to have broken his arm getting his chips in, but he 
said nothing. 

"Now, Jack," I said, "I had you beaten all the way through, 
and I would not have bankrupted you except that I saw a chance 
to teach you a good lesson about the folly of playing poker 
with a rabbit-foot. I had these four eights all the time." , Saying 
this, I spread my hand out on the table and reached for the pot. 

"Hold on there," said Jack. Then, without showing his hand 
he reached over and carefully inspected each of my eights. "Yes, 
you've got 'em," he said, "bnt why don't you stay out until you 
get something better?" Saying which, he laid down four jacks 
and raked in the pot. He had stayed on two jacks and had 
caught the other two on the draw. 

Now I hate to confess it, but nevertheless it is true, when 
the game broke up I tried to buy that rabbit-foot from Jack. 
Instead of converting Jack he had converted me. It has been 
a long, long time since I played cards of any kind, but I admit 
that if I were going to get in a game tonight I would feel far 
more comfortable if I took a rabbit-foot along than if I went 
without one, and I sure would let the fellow alone who had one 
in front of him. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 177 

BILLY TOOLE. 

ALL the old-time printers and newspaper men remember 
little Billy Toole. There was never but one Billy and 
there will never be another. The time and place were 
just right and Billy fitted in just as a setting does in a ring. In 
the strict business of commercial life today Billy would be an 
impossibility, but in the late 70's and early 80's things were the 
reverse of what they are today and Billy was enabled to flour- 
ish in air his glory. 

Now, as a matter of fact, Billy was a real and genuine Bo- 
hemian. He was the real article in every sense of the word. 
He was a skilled printer in the days when type was set by hand 
and skill counted for something. He had a brilliant imagination 
and was fond of writing blood and thunder stories, some of 
which would have done credit to Ned Buntline. The only defect 
about Billy's stories was that he never completed any of them. 
He would leave the hero or heroine in the most blood-curdling 
situation, and without taking the trouble to get him or her out, 
would lay aside his manuscript and start in on another story, 
the scene of which would perhaps be on the other side of the 
world. Billy almost completed one story, which had such merit 
that Professor Girardeau urged him to complete and publish it, 
but he never did so. 

Billy was "little but he was loud." No Spanish gamecock 
was ever more eager for battle than he on any pretext or excuse. 
It is a remarkable statement to make, nevertheless it is true, 
Billy rarely went to war and met with defeat. In some way he 
always managed to come out winner. The only time he suffered 
absolute defeat was when he bucked against John Barleycorn. 
He would try that game, too, being a genuine Bohemian, but he 
met the fate of all those brave but unwise people who enter 
the unequal fight. 

Billy figured as the star actor in one of the most laug]|able 
shooting affairs that ever occurred on Main Street, and by way 
of parenthesis it may be said here that he had the sympathy and 
backing of every man in town, when all the facts were learned. 

Billy, after "looking on the wine that was red" went wander- 
ing into the "Ironclad" gambling house on Main and Congress. 
He did not like something that was said or done and expressed 
his opinion of the whole crowd of gamblers from the proprietor 
down. For this offense he was promptly handed over to the 
official "bouncer," who was a great, big, strapping fellow. The 
man was a brute and, though he could have taken Billy up with 
one hand and carried him down stairs like a baby, he proceeded 
to handle him in the most brutal and outrageous manner. He 
slugged and beat him and then, grabbing him by the lapels of 
his coat, he butted him in the face. Then he carried him down 
and deposited him on the sidewalk. 

Billy was pretty nearly dead, but he was so angry it put life 
and energy enough in him to enable him to go off and borrow 



178 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

a six-shooter. Unfortunately the only pistol he could get was an 
old army pistol that was large, heavy and hard to handle. Billy 
took this and went back to get his man. He stood on the corner 
and waited. Before long the brute showed up, and, not knowing 
Billy's intentions, advanced on him as though he were going to 
attack him again. Then Billy pulled out his artillery and the 
fellow turned and fled. Billy fired one shot and took after the 
man. The gun was so heavy he had to hold it up with both 
hands. He would run up close, stop, cock his pistol and, hold- 
ing it with both hands, would fire at the fellow. It was strictly 
a running fight and extended from Congress to Preston, clearing 
the sidewalk of everybody except Billy and his victim. I am 
not certain, but I think Billy hit his man once or twice. I am 
certain of one thing, though: that is that Billy came in for gen- 
eral condemnation for being so bad a shot and not having killed 
the brute the first shot out of the box. The only extenuating 
circumstance was that Billy claimed the gun was so heavy he 
could not handle it with any degree of satisfaction and that he 
had done his best and could have done no more under the circum- 
stances. 

Billy was fond of practical jokes, and on one occasion he 
came near ruining a fine oration by one of Houston's most bril- 
liant lawyers, by asking a question and making a fool remark 
just at the wrong time. The occasion was a lecture or rather 
oration on the tariff question, the object being to explain what 
the tariff really is. The oration was in the opera house and 
the great power of the speaker being known, the affair was 
made something of a society event and the house was crowded 
with ladies. Billy was there in all his glory, seated away back 
in the gallery. The speaker had nearly completed his address 
when Billy stood up and called out: "May I ask you a question, 
major?" The major recognized him and answered: "Certainly, 
Mr. Toole." 

"Did I understand you to say that the tariff was a tax on 
everybody, though so concealed that its presence is not recognized 
by all?" 

"That is correct in substance," said the major. 

"All right, major," said Toole. "That puts the drinks on 
you. It's all I wanted to know," and he went out of the hall. 

The interruption and the irrelevant reply of Billy so upset 
the major that he forgot "where he was at" and made a halting 
and stumbling close of an address that had started off brilliantly 
and been, to the time of Billy's interruption, one of the best 
efforts of his life. 

For many days after that Billy kept his eye skinned for the 
major and always succeeded in seeing him first. He knew it 
would not do to meet the major until he cooled off. 

I have often wondered how Billy managed to die a natural 
death, for, according to all chances and probabilities, he should 
have been killed a dozen times. He did more to be killed for 
than nine-tenths of those who were actually killed. Not long ago 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 179 

I read of a fellow out in a West Texas town who armed him- 
self with a piece of lead pipe and strolled down the street, 
slugging every man whose looks he did not like. When I read 
that my thoughts reverted to Billy Toole, for that was his 
method of doing business, barring the lead pipe, of course. 



KIRBY-STEEL FEUD. 

I LIKE Waller County. I like Hempstead and I like the people 
who live up that way. There are many reasons for this. 
Personally I have none but the pleasantest memories of 
the old town of Hempstead, for it occupies first place in my own 
"first experiences," 

My first stage ride was made from Houston to Hempstead, 
though I must admit that my memory of it is only in spots, one 
of the "spots" being a large drove of wild horses which we saw 
on the prairie about fifteen miles from Houston, and another 
"spot" being our arrival at Hempstead. The first railroad ride 
I ever took was from Houston to Hempstead when the Houston 
and Texas Central Railway was completed to that place. There 
was a big barbecue and everybody in Houston went on that 
excursion. Later I spent some very happy school vacations at 
the hospitable home of Mr. Jarad Groce, near Hempstead. 

All these things combined render my memory of Hempstead 
and Waller County very pleasant. The people up that way 
are noted for their hospitality and kindly reception of strangers. 
That, of course, is commendable, but it is not the reason I like 
them. I know I may shock some of The Chronicle's readers 
when I say it, but my real admiration for the Waller County 
people is due to the fact that they are not "pikers." Whatever 
they do they throw their whole heart and souls into it and do 
it completely. They remind me of a sleeping volcano that lies 
dormant for years and then suddenly blows up and leaves only 
the fragments behind. 

When they are peacefully inclined, jack rabbits are as raging 
hyenas compared to them, but when they start on the other tack 
they do not raise any Sunday school "hades" or "Gehenna," or 
anything so euphonious sounding as that, but start right in with 
the genuine article and raise unadulterated hell. It has been 
said that any sport who, ambitious of becoming a bad man, was 
on the warpath seeking trouble, could find more of the genuine 
article, done up in a greater variety of styles, in Hempstead than 
in any other place in Texas. Just why this is so no one seems to 
understand, for as a rule the people of Waller County are among 
the best in the state and year after year the most profound 
peace, law and order prevail. 

Still there are always toes to be trodden on, and a Waller 
County man was never known to thwart the intentions of a 
would-be treader by withdrawing his toes. The trouble hunter 
is always sure of being met fully half way. There must be 



180 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

some cause for the existence of so much latent pugnacity, such 
dogged persistency, when once the "warpath" is taken, and, 
above all, for the reckless daring and coolness of the men when 
"in action." 

I have thought over the matter and concluded that it is all 
a question of heredity. It was born in them and they can't help 
it. My reason for saying this is that I know something of their 
fathers and grandfathers. In early days that section was settled 
by some of the best, most prominent and influential families 
who came to Texas. 

Conflicting interests, political differences and other causes 
led to individual quarrels and difficulties; personal friends and 
relatives took sides and soon there were fueds that resulted 
in bloody conflict. The fights were always many fights — the 
stand up, give and take kind. Such a thing as an assassination 
was almost unknown and when one occasionally occurred ten 
to one both the assassin and his victim belonged to the lowest 
order of criminals. The genuine feuds frowned on the work of 
an assassin and when a Brown or two were killed by a Smith 
or two there was no effort made to conceal the fact. It was 
done in the open and everybody knew how, why and when it 
was done. 

In those days there was a powerful and influential planter 
living near Hempstead — Colonel Kirby. There was also another 
man there who less prominent in social and financial circles, 
but one possessed of strong character, personal bravery and 
other admirable qualities that enable a man to establish himself 
anywhere as a man. This latter was Captain John Steel, a 
hero of San Jacinto. He had a farm which he and his son cul- 
tivated. For some cause Steel and Kirby quarreled. Kirby had 
a hundred friends where Steel had one, but that made no dif- 
ference to Steel, who would not yield an inch. Kirby ordered 
Steel to leave the country, while Steel fiatly refused to go. Some 
of Kirby's friends caught young Steel one night and just for fun 
made out they were going to hang him. They did not hurt him, 
but turned him loose after scaring him badly. This enraged 
Captain Steel and he sent word to Colonel Kirby that he was 
going to kill him on sight. Colonel Kirby treated the message 
with contempt and sent back word to Steel that he was going to 
treat him as a common criminal and that if he (Steel) were 
found in Waller County by midnight the next night he was going 
to have him hanged to the first tree he could find. That settled 
It. It was no longer a matter between two men, but was one 
of a single man against a dozen or more. Steel knew Kirby 
would do exactly what he said he would do. So he acted with 
discretion and left for Houston at once. He had to sacrifice his 
home and everything to save his life, but he did so, bearing in 
mind all the time that some day he would be able to square 
his account with Kirby. 

Steel remained in Houston until the close of the war. The 
army of occupation came in and everything was under semi- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 181 

martial law. One day Colonel Kirby came to Houston to consult 
with the commander of the post, whose office was on the second 
floor of the old Wilson building.corner of Main Street and Con- 
gress Avenue. On the same day and at the same hour Captain 
Steel went to consult Judge Hamblen, his lawyer, who had an 
office in the same building just opposite the commander's office. 
Their business completed, both Kirby and Steel stepped out in 
the hall from the respective offices and for the first time since 
their trouble, came face to face. Not a word was spoken by 
either. Like a flash Steel drew his pistol and flred and Kirby 
sank to the floor and died. Steel was arrested and placed in 
jail. He was soon admitted to bail and then his case came to 
trial and he was acquitted. 

At the time when Colonel Kirby was killed he had a young 
son only four or five years old. This boy was too young to 
appreciate the great loss he had sustained, but as he grew up 
he learned all the details, and though he never gave a hint of 
that fact, he evidently brooded over it and determined to be 
avenged. He was sent away to one of the older states and grad- 
uated from a leading college with honor. He then entered a law 
school, developed fine oratorical power and graduated at the 
head of his class. He returned home, and as his fame had pre- 
ceded him, he was given a royal welcome by his own friends 
and by those of his father. 

In the meantime Captain Steel had moved back to Waller 
County and was living in or near Hempstead. Young Kirby 
never mentioned Steel's name and gave no indication that he 
knew of his existence. Kirby did know it, though, and had made 
all his plans. The following Sunday morning Steel, now an old 
man, was coming out of the church door with his old wife hold- 
ing to his arm. As he got completely out he was confronted by 
young Kirby, who had stepped from behind a tree, with a gun in 
his hand. Again the old tragedy was re-started. Steel and 
Kirby again faced each other, though in this last meeting the 
ground of vantage was shifted and Kirby held the winning hand. 
Again not a word was spoken. There was a sharp report and 
Steel was sent to his final account in identically the same way 
that he had sent Colonel Kirby to his. Young Kirby disappeared 
at once. If any effort was ever made to catch him it was only 
perfunctory and half-hearted, for everybody felt that he had 
done only right in killing the man who had killed his father and 
doing it in the same way that the first killing had been done. 

Now, this is only one of many similar cases that took place 
in Waller and neighboring counties, and while there are no feuds 
up that way now there is lots of the same blood that caused the 
old ones, and while conditions now do not favor family bicker- 
ings and contentions, there is the same old martial spirit up 
that way that occasionally slips its bridle and, as remarked al- 
ready, proceeds to raise genuine hell. 



182 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

NEGRO FIREMEN DURING THE WAR. 

IN 1863 every able-bodied man in Houston who was anything 
of a man at all had gone in the army. Houston's fine 
volunteer fire department existed only in name, for all the 
young men comprising it had promptly volunteered at the first 
call. There were only the old men and boys left and as these 
were poor material from which to make active firemen, the situ- 
ation was rather grave. There was a good hook and ladder 
outfit, that of Hook and Ladder Company No. 1, and two fire 
machines — I came near saying engines, but they were not. They 
were the old-fashioned machines that had a pump somewhere in 
the middle, worked by two side arms having at their ends long 
bars, which were worked up and down by from ten to fifteen 
men on each side. Doubtless many readers of The Chronicle 
have seen pictures of these old fire fighting machines, which 
Sexist now nowhere else except in pictures. But there was no 
one here to work even these old machines, so it was finally de- 
termined to detail a number of negroes to act as firemen under 
white officers. The negroes made splendid firemen and enjoyed 
it so much that it was feared by some of the timid citizens that 
the negroes would start fires just for the fun and pleasure of 
putting them out. 

It was a pleasure to watch the negro firemen at a fire. They 
threw their whole souls into the work and seemed never to 
grow weary, although it was the hardest kind of work and fre- 
quently lasted for two or three hours without stop or rest. 
Nominally they were under the control of white men, but actual- 
ly, after they got their pumps going and their streams of water 
well directed, they were under their own control, so far as 
running those handlebars was concerned. A little whiskey 
handed around in a bucket and drunk out of a tin cup without 
water was all-sufficient to keep them on the go under a full 
head of steam for hours. They sang, of course, for a real negro 
can do nothing that requires rapid action without singing, and 
they composed their own words and, I suspect, their own tunes, 
too. 

I remember a big fire that occurred down by where the gas 
works now are, in 1863. Quite a number of small houses were 
burned. Of course, with the present day fire department the 
fire would never have extended beyond the first house, but at 
that time whenever a house caught fire, if there was one near 
it, it was pretty apt to go, too. Anyway, four or five went that 
time, one after the other, the negroes fighting the fire like 
demons, and singing like angels, for they do sing sweetly. One 
of my grandfather's negroes, John Cook, better known to every- 
body as "Big John," because of his great size, was choir leader. 
He would sing a verse alone and then other negroes would take 
up the refrain. I heard the song so often that I remember the 
tune and one of the verses. I can't give you the air, but I can 
give the verse, which was as follows: 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 183 

"If I had a wife and she wouldn't dress fine, 

Whiskey, oh whiskey! 
I'd leave this world and climb a pine. 

Whiskey, oh my whiskey! 

Big John, who had a powerful voice, would sing: 
"If I had a wife who wouldn't dress fine," 
and then the crowd would join in with 
"Whiskey, oh whiskey!" 

It was fine. There were about fifty verses, but the one I give 
is all that I remember. The air was very musical and the 
words fitted well to the beat of the handlebars, so that the work 
of handling them became a real pleasure instead of hard work, 
as it would have been without the singing. It was something 
like going to a good concert to attend a fire in those days. 

I don't know that there is such a thing as a negro fire com- 
pany in existence today anywhere in the United States, but if 
there is, it can't, with modern fire fighting apparatus, be any- 
thing like the old negro company that Houston had during the 
war. 

4» * * 

HISTORICAL SPOTS. 

PUTTING that tablet on the Rice Hotel building to designate 
the point where the capitol of the Republic of Texas 
once stood was a good idea, but there are one or two 
other points whose historical memories also should be preserved. 
One of the chief of these is the Preston Street bridge, for where 
it stands once stood the pioneer bridge of Houston, over which 
passed the commerce of Texas. Until 1842 there was no bridge 
across Buffalo Bayou. There was little or no need for one, for 
north of Houston there was only scant settlement and what 
travel was done was mainly to and from the west over the San 
Felipe Road, which passed to the west of the bayou. The stray 
farmer or traveler from the north or east had either to go 
around the head of the bayou or use Stockbridge ford at the 
foot of Texas Avenue. But in the early 40's a bridge became 
absolutely necessary, because Montgomery, Washington and 
Grimes Counties were settling up rapidly and the farmers de- 
sired some speedier means of getting to the "city." 

The city built the bridge at the foot of Preston Street, as it 
was called then, and it stood for a number of years, until swept 
away by a big rise in the bayou. When it was replaced a longer, 
higher and stronger bridge was built, and this was known as the 
"Long Bridge." It stood for years and was the only means of 
communication between Houston and the rapidly growing in- 
terior. Over it passed the cotton, hides, corn and all farm prod- 



184 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

ucts that were brought here to be marketed and all goods for 
the interior, purchased in Houston, were taken back over this 
bridge. Farmers and merchants from as far north as Waco 
came to Houston to sell their produce and to purchase their 
goods. Both for the sake of company and for mutual protection 
they traveled in companies of four or five, and it was no unusual 
tiling to see a row of wagons, each drawn by from eight to six- 
teen oxen, crossing "Long Bridge." Then, too. Main Street and 
Market Square would present a strange sight when crowded with 
oxen and ox wagons. It used to be a hard pull from the end of 
the bridge on this side to Louisiana Street. Preston Street has 
been cut down and graded since then, but in the early days it 
was uphill from the bridge to Louisiana Street, and it was all 
deep white sand. It was a regular sandhill and a big wagon 
loaded with several bales of cotton had need of all the oxen 
obtainable to get through safely. I have seen teams doubled up 
more than once and two or three trips made to get the wagons 
through. 

Of course, from over on the Brazos the wagons came in over 
the San Felipe Road, but the great bulk of the commerce of 
Texas passed over the Preston Street bridge. All the cotton 
raised in Texas at that time was brought to Houston and sold 
here and all the goods consumed in the interior were bought 
here. The cotton crops in those days were small affairs as com- 
pared with those of today, hence it was possible for the Houston 
merchants to finance the whole crop. Of course the fact that 
very little cash was paid out, the cotton being traded for both 
goods and cash, rendered it possible for even a small merchant 
to do a big business and in this way the foundations were laid 
for some of the big fortunes many of the Houstonians made. 
In those days a favorite sport among the boys was sledding. 
The sleds were made by rounding off the ends of two pieces of 
plank, to serve as runners, and then joining them together by 
nailing a stout piece in front and a broad piece behind to serve 
as a seat. A long rope was attached to the front end and the 
whole thing was ready for use. When an ox wagon came along 
we would slip up behind it, pass the rope around the rear axle, 
or whatever it is called, and then drawing it far enough back so 
as to be able to sit on the sled and hold the loose end, we would 
mount the sled and ride to our heart's content, or until the 
driver discovered us. If he showed hostile intentions, all we 
would have to do was to turn loose the end of the rope, grab 
our sled and get away. It was lots of fun then, but looking back 
on it now, I can see that there was lots of hard work about it, too. 

But I have wandered from the point I wanted to make, that of 
showing how appropriate it would be for the Cotton Exchange, 
the Board of Trade, Chamber of Commerce, or all of these or- 
ganizations, to take steps to mark appropriately the point where 
the commerce of the State of Texas passed, long before the 
days of railroads. 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 185 

JACK AND JIM MARTIN. 

HOUSTON has produced many men who have made names 
for themselves in civil, military and naval life and 
others still, who, while they never attained success in 
financial, commercial, military or naval circles, still, by their 
marked individuality so impressed themselves on the early his- 
tory of Houston that it is impossible to speak of youthful Hous- 
ton without recalling them. 

Two of the latter kind were the Martin brothers, Jack and 
Jim. They were of a type seldom seen now. They were gam- 
blers and absolutely honest men. I don't suppose either ever 
took the shade of an unfair advantage over an opponent nor 
would they have a man in their employ who was even suspected 
of being crooked. As Jack used to explain, "Cheating don't 
pay in the long run. If a gambler can't win out with the advan- 
tage of having the percentage of the game in his favor and the 
other advantage of making the other fellow do all the guessing, 
he better quit." 

Both Jack and Jim had the respect and confidence of the 
business men of Houston and though they never pretended to 
be anything more than what they were — professional gamblers, 
their word was good without other security for any amount of 
money within reason with such men as A. B. Sheppard, T. W. 
House, Sr., Paul Bremond, Wm. J. Hutchins or any of the big 
merchants or bankers of those days. 

Jack was relatively taciturn. I say relatively, because had 
it not been for Jim, Jack might have been considered an or- 
dinarily talkative man. However, Jim was such a conversa- 
tionalist, told such interesting and instructive stories, and had 
had so broad an experience which gave an inexhaustible fund 
from which to drajiv, that Jack always seemed to be something 
of a clam when Jim was around. 

They had a fine establishment on the second floor of a build- 
ing about two stores north of where Sweeney's Jewelry store 
now stands on Main Street, between Prairie Avenue and Pres- 
ton Avenue, and their rooms were always w^ell filled by planters, 
interior merchants and others who came to Houston to sell 
their cotton and sugar and who were always willing to take 
a whirl at faro to pass away the time and hear Jim talk. 

With all his good nature, his talkativeness and apparent in- 
difference to the serious affairs of life, there was one subject 
which had for Jim the greatest interest and that was the future 
life. It was a subject he considered too sacred for indiscrimi- 
nate discussion and he never talked about it in a crowd. When 
alone with some one whom he thought could appreciate his views, 
he would unbosom himself. 

"You see," said he to me one evening, "it's this way. We 
don't know anything about it. I don't believe in the preacher's 
hell, where they burn you in brimstone, and I don't believe in 
these men and women who tip tables and go off into trances 
and tell you the future is the very reverse of what the preach- 



186 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

ers say. That whipsaws me, of course. I lose both ways and 
I end where I started." 

"Well," said I, "why don't you give it up and quit thinking 
about it?" 

"I would," said he, "but for two things. One happened to 
me and the other happened to Jack." 

I knew there was a good story coming so I remained silent. 

"What happened to me was a plenty, too, for I actually died 
and went to hell, so I know there is a hell. That part's settled 
in my mind, almost. You are too young to more than barely 
remember that there was a big yellow fever epidemic in Houston 
in 1852. It was a hummer and as it was the first one since 1847 
when so many people died, there were lots of newcomers here 
who had never had the fever and it seemed like everybody in 
town was down with it and either dead or dying. About the 
fourth or fifth week it got me and I grew sicker and sicker until 
finally I did not know anything at all until suddenly I came to 
my senses for a moment and realized I was dying sure enough. 
The next thing I knew I was dead and could hear my women 
folks crying and going on. Then everything became black and 
silent and when I came to I was in a great big hall with a big 
throne at one end of it. The hall was crowded, but there was 
window which he w^as facing. All of a sudden he saw Lige 
on each side of this space the sheep and goats were lined up. 
They had me on the goat side. On the throne was a big man 
with a long white beard who had a long shepherd's crook in his 
hand. He looked like the picture of Moses I had seen, so I 
concluded it was him. Whoever he was, he had full charge 
and went on sorting the sheep and goats with his crook as fast 
as they came in. 

"Now, I didn't like being among the goats, so I slipped across 
among the sheep, but it didn't do any good, 'for I scarcely got 
across when Moses, or whoever he was, reached out and caught 
me round the neck with his crook and put me back with the 
goats. I tried it again, but he roped me with his crook without 
even looking around at me. I waited a moment and sneaked over 
again. This time he caught me before I got clean over and 
twisted my neck when he shoved me back. It made me mad and 
I blurted out, 'Damn it, sir; don't do that.' 

"In a second old Moses changed. He looked vicious and. 
Instead of pushing me clear back among the goats, he gave 
his crook a sudden flirt and threw me clear through the roof 
out into space. I thought I never would land anywhere. Finally 
I saw solid earth under me and when I got nearer it I saw a 
little hole in the ground like one of those doodle holes the boys 
stick straws in and catch doodles. I was heading straight for 
that hole, and the next minute I hit it, head on, and went through 
like a flash. The squeeze through the hole broke my fall, and 
the next moment I landed safely in a beautiful garden. It was 
a fine place. I stood up and looked round. There were horse 
races going on and big crowds of ladies and gentlemen were 



HO USTON AND HOUSTONIANS 187 

attending them. Right out under the trees were faro banks, 
roulette tables and every kind of gambling, and everybody 
seemed to have plenty of money. There were beautiful women 
and elegantly dressed men, and waiters passing round with all 
kinds of drinks. 

"Finally an elegantly dressed gentleman, wearing a stovepipe 
hat, came up and, calling me by name, welcomed me to hell. 
'You don't tell me this is hell,' I said. 'Yes,' said the devil, 'this 
is it; how do you like it?' 

" 'God Almighty, man,' said I, but the devil popped his hand 
over my mouth before I could finish. 'Don't use that name 
down here, Jim,' he said. 

"Then he took me everywhere and showed me what a fine place 
he had. I was beginning to feel thankful to old Moses for 
throwing me out of his sorting shop, but just then we came to 
a big flat rock. It was so hot it looked blue. The devil did 
not say a word, but I knew right off that I had to pull my shoes 
off and get on that rock. 

"'Look here, old man,' I said to the devil; 'can't we cut this 
part of the performance out? You know what a good friend of 
yours I've been.' 

" 'Yes, Jim,' said he. 'I know you have always worked for 
me and I feel grateful to you for it, but I can't help you now. 
It's the rule and nobody can break a rule in hell. Why, the 
whole place would fall to pieces if I broke a rule or allowed one 
to be broken.' 

"I saw there was no way out of it, so I pulled off my shoes 
and mounted the rock. When I did so I heard my mother say, 
'Keep rubbing.' Then I came to and found that the women were 
rubbing my hands and feet with pepper and mustard to keep 
up circulation. I got well, but could not handle anything or 
walk for a week or two because of blistered hands and feet." 

"Now, you see, I know all about hell, because I've been there 
and have seen it. The other thing happened to Jack. Jack and 
Lige McGowan were great friends. They were over on the old 
White Oak bridge one moonlight night and got to talking about 
the hereafter. Jack said a man was the same as a tree, and 
that when he was dead he was dead, and that was all there was 
about it. Lige didn't know so much about that. So, after ar- 
guing awhile, they agreed that the first one that died should 
come back to the survivor and tell him all about it, or as much 
as he could. They shook hands over the agreement. About 
a month after that Jack had been dealing faro until late. The 
game broke up about 3 o'clock and everybody except Jack and 
another man went home. It was a hot summer night and the 
moon was full. Jack and the other man concluded to lie down 
on a big table and sleep there instead of going home. Jack 
says the other man dropped off to sleep as soon as he lay down, 
but that he was lying there, wide awake, looking out of the big 
window which he was facing. All on a sudden he saw Lige 
McGowan come walking across Main Street, right up in the air. 



188 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Jack grabbed the other fellow and tried to wake him, but could 
not do so. Lige walked straight to the window, stepped in, 
and, hopping down on the floor, came right up to Jack. 

" 'Jack,' said Lige, 'are you awake? I've come to tell you 
there is a hereafter, though it is not as good nor as bad as you 
might hope for. There is an after life and you can improve it 
by what you do here.' Saying this, Lige vanished and then the 
fellow whom Jack was pulling on all the time waked up. Jack 
described how Lige was dressed and told the whole story. He 
said Lige had on a big blue military coat, with brass buttons 
down the front. 

"The next day we hunted for Lige, but no one knew where he 
was. Two or three days later a man came in from the Brazos 
and brought news that Lige had died out there. The strange 
thing was that Lige had shown up at a house crazy with fever 
and had lost nearly all his clothes in some way. When they gox 
ready to bury him the only thing they had to put on him waa 
an old blue military coat with brass buttons, the same as he 
wore when he came to see Jack. 

"When Jack heard about the coat he knew he had seen Lige 
and I had hard work keeping him from going right off and join- 
ing the church. We had a big game and were making lots of 
money, and if Jack had joined the church it would have ruined 
us." 

Poor old Jim, and Jack, too, have long ago turned over theii 
boxes and cashed all chips, but when they quit the game for 
good they took with them the respect of all who knew them 
for they died as they lived, "square men." 

4» •!• 4" 

NEGRO CRAP SHOOTERS. 

A FACT that demands investigation and explanation at the 
hands of the scientists is the mortal terror inspired in 
the breast of the negro crap shooter by the appearance 
of a policeman. If there was a death penalty attached to crap 
shooting there might be a possible explanation, but there is 
only a light fine and a possible detention in the lockup for a 
few hours. Yet in spite of all this when a party of negroes are 
caught "rollin' the bones" by the police there is nothing short 
of the indestructible being in their way that is going to keep 
them from trying to get away. They will take the most mar- 
velous chances, involving loss of life and limb, and they think 
no more of leaping out of a third story window than they do of 
going out of a convenient door on the first floor. 

It is just as impossible to keep a negro from playing craps 
as it is to keep a section hand from getting drunk on pay day. 
They will play in spite of everything or anything and no one 
can stop them. Some years ago the police of San Antonio, 
according to a story told me by an ex-policeman, made a rather 
neat thing out of the negro gamblers in the following way: On 
Saturday evenings the negroes would seek secluded places along 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 189 

the river banks and indulge in their favorite pastime. The 
policeman vi^ould mark them down and concealing himself, wait 
until the game became exciting. Then, at a critical moment, 
when the negroes had their money all spread out on the ground, 
he would suddenly show himself, fire his pistol in the air and the 
next moment he would be left absolutely alone in possession of 
the field. He told me he had frequently picked up fourteen or 
fifteen dollars in dimes, quarters and larger coins abandoned 
by the negroes when they fled. Of course he made no effort to 
stop any of them, for the sooner they got out of sight the better 
pleased he was. 

It really seems that it needs the "rattle of the bones" to bring 
out the queer side of the negro's nature. They will do the 
most absurd and senseless things imaginable when under the 
exciting influence of gambling. Not long ago I was talking 
with Horace Baker, the big deputy sheriff who has had long ex- 
perience with negroes, as everybody knows, and he told me an 
amusing story. 

"I was coming up town," he said, "and when I got to a point 
below Harrisburg, not far from the bayou, a black negro who 
knew me came out in the road and told me a tale of woe. You 
know we catch the negro crap shooters nine times out of ten 
through some negro squealing. This was one of the times, for 
the negro told me that a gang of negroes was down on the bank 
of the bayou playing craps and that they had got him in the 
game and robbed him of all his wife's money. I saw through 
the thing at once. He had lost his money and wanted me to 
pinch the crowd and get it back for him. 

"That's the game. So long as they win the game is fair and 
the money belongs to them, but when they lose the game is 
crooked and the money, they say, was their wives.' I got down 
off my horse and followed him. When we got near enough, I 
hid behind a clump of bushes and watched them for a while. 
There were six playing and one little, black, bullet-headed fellow 
was looking on. He was taking no part in the game, and the 
negro who had stopped me told me the little fellow had not 
played at all. After watching them for a little while I stood up 
and started toward them. Then the fun commenced. Two of 
them had their backs to me, but one of the others saw me and 
gave the alarm. The two on my side did not even look around 
but made a dive forward, knocking over everything and every- 
body in front of them and broke down the bayou bank like 
quarter horses. The three that were knocked down got up and 
scattered, but the fourth one, a big negro with an old-fashioned 
wooden leg like a broomstick, jumped off the high bank and 
landed on a pile of clay the dredgeboat had scooped out of the 
bayou. When he came down, instead of landing on his good 
leg, he landed on his peg. That went into the clay and an- 
chored him as firmly as a piledriver could have anchored a post. 
I knew I had him, so paid no further attention to him. 



190 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"Now, you would suppose that the little bullet-headed negro, 
who had been merely looking on and who had not been gambling 
at all, would have made no effort to escape, but he was the 
worst frightened of all of them. When he caught sight of me, 
he let out a yell like a frightened woman and tore down the 
bank and plunged in the bayou. I saw I could not get him ,and 
as I did not want him particularly, I turned my attention to 
the others. I heard the anchored negro puffing and blowing 
and on looking down I found he was busy trying to unstrap his 
wooden leg, so he could leave it there and roll off into the bayou. 
He was determined to get away, so I thought I had best take 
him in charge. I crawled down to where he was anchored and 
when I got there I took a look for the negro who had jumped 
in the bayou. I knew he had not had time to swim half way 
over the bayou, but he was nowhere in sight. I could see along 
the bank on my side, but there was not a sign of him. Finally 
I concluded he had gone under and been drowned. I got my 
one-legged chap out and took him up the bank and was about 
to leave him, when I noticed a good sized piece of plank floating 
along in the bayou and something peculiar about it attracted 
my attention. I watched it closely and then thought I could 
see a kind of bump at one end. I walked down the bank where 
I could get a better view and then I saw what it was. The 
negro had sunk his whole body, leaving only his mouth and nose 
sticking slightly out of the water and was floating along quietly 
with the board, waiting for me to leave. I told my one-legged 
man that I thought there was a turtle on the board and that 1 
was going to kill it. I said that to scare the negro, but his ears 
being under water he did not hear me. Then I took careful 
aim at the far end of the board and cut down with my six- 
shooter. No harpooned whale or sea monster ever cut up worse 
than that negro did. He fairly rose out of the water, yell- 
ing like a crazy man. It scared me badly, for I thought that 
I had hit him and I would not have done that for anything. He 
commenced yelling: 'I give up, Mr. Baker! I give up, Mr. 
Baker!' I ordered him to come to shore and was much relieved 
to find that he was unharmed. I took the two to Harrisburg 
and turned them over to the constable there, and came on to 
town. I was more amused than proud for all I had done was 
to capture a one-legged negro who actually caught himself by 
bogging down, and capture a negro who had done nothing to be 
captured for." 

* * * 

HUNTER MYER 

I HAVE told of the boy hunters of Houston and of what fun 
we used to have chasing rabbits, shooting birds and roam- 
ing over the prairies and woods which are now thickly 
settled portions of the City of Houston, and now I am going to 
tell of a sure enough hunter one, whose exploits in that line 
equaled those of any of the great hunters of this country. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 191 

In the late 40's there came to Houston a gentleman who was 
apparently in the advanced stages of consumption. He was tall, 
being over six feet, and as straight as an arrow. He was a man 
of family and had but little of this world's goods. The doctors 
told him that he must not seek employment that would keep him 
indoors or be in any way confining; that he must go somewhere 
where he could be in the open air and get all the sunshine pos- 
sible. The advice was the proper thing and it was easy enough 
for the doctors to give, but it was not so easy for Mr. T. B. 
Myer, the gentleman himself, to follow, since its adoption meant 
the starvation of his family while he was attempting to get well. 
He thought it all over and then concluded that there was but 
one way in which he could follow the doctor's advice and at the 
same time support his family, and that was by becoming a pro- 
fessional hunter. 

Having formulated this plan, he set about putting it in prac- 
tical operation. Among his friends was a San Jacinto veteran, 
a Mr. Arnold, who gave him a long rifle which he had used in 
the battle of San Jacinto. Every school boy raised in Houston 
remembers the long rifle, which was as well known as "Hunter" 
Myer. It was very long and very heavy and we boys used to 
wonder how anybody could ever handle it at all. Having prob- 
ably done some execution among the Mexicans at San Jacinto, 
it was destined to do much greater among the deer, turkeys and 
other game near Houston. Hunter Myer used this rifle for over 
a quarter of a century and when too old and infirm to hunt longer 
he gave it to Tom Padgitt, then a Houston boy, but now one 
of the leading merchants of Waco, who still has it. 

Hunter Myer was a remarkable man in many respects. He 
was over six feet high, did not have an ounce of fat on his body 
and was nothing but bone, sinew and muscles. He was a pow- 
erful man and had a grip like a vise. One of the most vivid 
remembrances I have of him was seeing him one day scare a 
little Jew almost to death. The Jew kept a store on or near 
the corner of Preston Avenue and Milam Street and had done 
something that angered Hunter Myer and he had gone to the 
Jew's store evidently with the intention of chastizing him. 
When he got there and the Jew realized that Hunter Myer was 
after him his terror was so evident and his attitude so groveling 
that Mr. Myer changed his mind about giving him a whipping 
and concluded to give him a good scare instead. He suddenly 
reached over the counter and catching the Jew by the back 
of his coat lifted him bodily over the counter as easily as if it 
had been an infant he was handling. Then catching him by 
the collar of his coat he bore him, shrieking, to the sidewalk. 
There holding him out at arms' length he quietly pulled out his 
long hunting knife and pretended to be searching among the 
Jew's ribs for a soft place to shove the point of the knife in. 
Sheriff Hogan, who lived across the street on Milam Street, heard 
the shrieks of the little fellow and concluding that some one 
was being murdered, came on a run. 



192 ^ TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

But Mr. Myer winked at him and he saw it was only fun, so 
did not interfere. 

The Jew did not see anything but the big knife and all he 
heard was the grit and grind of Mr. Myer's teeth, who pretended 
to be fairly crazy with anger. He would lower the little fellow 
to the ground as though he was going to let him go and then 
changing his mind he would elevate him again and begin search- 
ing with the point of his knife fresh places in the Jew's side. 
The Jew's shrieks and prayers for mercy were pitiful. Finally 
Mr. Myer released his grip sufficiently to allow the Jew to es- 
cape, which he did very promptly, going toward Main Street and 
leaving all his earthly possessions behind him. He was thank- 
ful to escape with his life. 

All that took place after Hunter Myer had regained his health 
and after he had made name and fame as a mighty hunter. 

His hunting outfit was simple — a little two-wheel wagon with 
a canvas cover, drawn by a single horse. This horse was trained 
and was of great assistance to him while out on his hunts. 

As there were no such things as cold storage and ice in those 
days, Mr. Myer had to get his game to town as soon after killing 
it as possible. Hence he could not go very far off to hunt. His 
favorite hunting grounds were up Buffalo Bayou, the head of 
Clear Creek, Chocolate Bayou, Austin Bayou, San Jacinto bot- 
tom and other nearby points, none of them more than 12 or 15 
miles from Houston. An idea of the abundance of game near 
Houston at that time may be found from the statement that 
when Hunter Myer died in 1880 he was credited with having 
killed, within 20 miles of Houston, over 11,000 deer, and turkeys 
and other game too numerous to mention, all of which he sold 
in Houston. He was a quiet and peaceful man, slow to anger, 
but when once aroused it was well to keep out of his way, for 
he became terrible. He was absolutely honest and fair in all 
his dealings and he demanded and saw, too, that all with whom 
he came in contact accorded him the same treatment. He played 
no favorites in disposing of his game and unless some one of his 
customers had spoken in advance for a part or the whole of a 
deer or for other game, he sold everything in the open market — 
first come, first served kind of way. He would come down Main 
Street, if he had been hunting out that way, and often before 
he had reached Preston Avenue he would be sold out, for a sight 
of his little wagon jogging down the street was notice enough 
for the people living on Main Street that they could get venison 
or other game. He never had the least trouble in selling all the 
game he could kill. 

For a few years before he died he was forced to give up 
hunting by the infirmities of old age, but he had accumulated 
enough of the world's goods to live in quiet and ease and his 
last days were quiet and peaceful. He died in 1880, honored and 
respected by the whole community. 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 193 

COL. GEO. BAYLOR. 

THE other morning I woke up thinking about the old 
Indian trading post that was formerly located down at 
the foot of Preston Avenue. From the old post my mind 
wandered off to Indians in general and I remembered a story 
about them that my friend, Colonel George Baylor, once told 
me. It is a good story, too. His brother. General John R. 
Baylor, was governor of New Mexico and Arizona, and had the 
Indians pretty well in hand, particularly those he had on the 
reservation he had established where he made his headquarters. 
Colonel Baylor was temporarily with his brother. The two 
brothers had a negro servant with them, who was afraid as 
death of the Indians at first, until he found that they would 
not molest him,, and then, nigger-like, he got to showing off 
before them and resenting their calling him "Buffalo," which 
they did because his head was kinky like the head of a bufCalo. 
Before long the negro got it in his head that there was no harm 
in an Indian and that "Marse John had done subdued 'em." 
Then he took advantage of the situation and began to run off 
and spend days in the woods, for he was one of the "runaway" 
kind of negroes. Both General Baylor and Colonel Baylor 
warned him that he was likely to be caught by some Indians 
who did not know him and that if that happened he would be 
a gone coon. He said nothing, but he evidently thought their 
warning was simply to try to scare him and paid no attention 
to it. 

Finally he ran away and was gone for several days. General 
Baylor concluded to give him a lesson that would cure him for 
all time. He called one or two chiefs in his office and asked 
them to take a body of their followers, go out and catch the 
negro and give him a good scare. The' Indians were tickled to 
death at the idea of having such fun and entered into the scheme 
eagerly. They put on their war paint, armed themselves with 
their knives and tomahawks and set out to find the negro. They 
caught him, about five miles away, asleep under a tree. They 
tied and gagged him and then held a big war dance all around 
and over him. He was scared half to death before they got 
half through their dance, but his fear was as nothing compared 
to that he felt when they jerked him to his feet and bound him 
to a tree with a rope. They whooped and danced and began 
piling leaves and brush over him, as though they were preparing 
to burn him. When they stood him against the tree they took 
the ropes from his legs and merely had one rope around his 
neck to hold him to the tree. He could kick all he pleased 
and he did a lot of it, trying to keep them from piling the brush 
and leaves on him. 

Then the chiefs changed the program. They got their young 
men to form a line and throw tomahawks at the negro, the ob- 
ject being to see who could come nearest his head without hitting 
him. Finally, when they had him about dead with fright, one of 
the Indians, intentionally, threw a tomahawk and cut the rope 



194 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

that bound the negro to the tree. He realized that he was free 
and bolted. The Indians let him get a good start and then, 
raising awful whoops and yells, they took after him. He made 
a bee-line for home with what he thought was a whole tribe 
of bloodthirsty Indians at his heels. 

Colonel Baylor said they could hear the Indians yelling for 
two miles away and they knew they had the negro headed for 
home. He says when the negro finally showed up his eyes were 
popped out and twisted so that they were back of his head. The 
negro tore through the camp and made for a little shanty he 
occupied. He rushed in and slammed the door, which was im- 
mediately broken open by the Indians, who rushed in on him. 

Then the fun commenced in earnest. The negro became per- 
fectly frantic with fear and fought like a fiend. An Indian 
knows nothing about fighting with his fists, so the negro had 
everything his own way. The colonel says the Indians were 
knocked here and there and pummeled terribly, but took every- 
thing good naturedly. They did not get the least angry but 
fought on until the shanty was wrecked and fell down on the 
combatants. Then the negro, finding himself in the open air 
once more, got on his feet and knocking Indians right and left 
cleared a passage and made for the river, half a mile away. 
When he reached the river he dived off a high embankment, 
where there was a big whirlpool, and came near drowning before 
some Mexicans roped him and pulled him. safely to shore. 

The colonel said there were at least a dozen Indians with 
black eyes and bloody noses, but not an angry Indian in the 
whole bunch. They seemed to have enjoyed every moment of 
the chase. 

So far as the negro was concerned, he was cured and could 
scarcely be induced to go near an Indian in the camp, to sa> 
nothing of going out in the woods, which he feared was full 
of them. 

During that conversation, the colonel told me another inter- 
esting story about a fight he had with the Comanche Indians 
when he was captain of a ranger company. He said he was 
certain that he had killed the last Comanche Indian killed in 
Texas. His company had had a fight with a band of them and 
was following them. He had a very fast horse and got far 
ahead of his men, following three Indians. The trail they were 
on dipped down into a dry gully and when he saw that the In- 
dians did not ride out on the other side, he said he knew what 
they were doing just the same as though he could see them. 
They had gotten on one side of the trail and intended shooting 
him as he rode down the gully. Instead of doing that he turned 
to one side and came up behind them. They were close together, 
ready to shoot him the moment he appeared. He got right close 
to them and fired both barrels of his shotgun, loaded with buck- 
shot, killing all three of them. The others of the gang got away, 
but that was the last raid the Comanches ever made, therefore 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 195 

Colonel Baylor says he is certain that he killed the last of the 
tribe that was killed in Texas. 

* <*> * 

MAKING A BEGGAR. 

SEEING the street beggars the other day reminded me that 
I have on my conscience the crime of having inflicted on 
the community one of these gentry. My doing so made me 
very unpopular with the public also. I have often thought how 
very easy the people were to be taken in by the fraud I helped 
to create. Instead of being allowed to impose on the public he 
should have been arrested by tlie police, furnished with a wooden 
leg and put to work. 

He had absolutely no excuse for being a burden on the public, 
but he was one and a very successful one, too. His history i» 
somewhat amusing as well as instructive, so I will give it here. 

Soon after I had graduated in medicine and while I was eager 
to show my skill as a surgeon there came to Houston a big 
negro from somewhere up the state. 

He was the most trifling specimen of humanity I ever saw, 
though I must say he was smart, in a tricky kind of way. He 
but he was one and a very successful one, too. His history is 
being stiff he could not navigate well. He used crutches and 
got about very well, except that his leg, which stuck out like a 
rudder interfered wtih his movements soniewhat. 

About a month after he arrived in Houston he was taken sick 
with fever and was sent to the hospital by the city authorities. 
After he got well Dr. Connell and I persuaded him to let us 
take his leg off. We had to use strong arguments with him, 
but finally overcame his objections. The operation was "a beau- 
tiful one" from our point of view and resulted in making his 
fortune. 

We had told him that after his leg was off he could get a 
wooden one and then could get all the work he wanted. That 
was just exactly the thing he did not want. He had higher 
finance in view than the paltry sums he could accumulate with 
a wooden leg and work. So soon as we discharged him from the 
hospital he took to a sunny side of the street and became a pro- 
fessional beggar, just as hundreds have done since his day. 

He had the most deceptive face I ever saw. He could put on 
an expression of woe begoneness that would pull dimes out of 
the pockets of skinflints. His voice was plaintive and many 
gave to him feeling that they were doing a real charity, whereas 
they were oii\y helping to foster a fraud. 

He always pulled off his hat and bowed low whenever Dr. 
Connell or I passed him, though he never had the gall to ask 
us for a donation. He looked on us as his benefactors, for he 
knew we had set him up in a lucrative business. 

Had he saved his money and invested it he might have become 
a wealthy man. All great men have some pet weakness, how- 
ever, and our great one loved whiskey too well. For a year or 



196 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

two he never drank while on duty, but then, growing bold be- 
cause of his great prosperity, he kept a little flask in his pocket 
and took sly sips from it. 

That upset his judgment and he became saucy and irritable, so 
much so that the public lost confidence in him and began to 
look on him as a nuisance rather than as an object of charity. 
All of which was fatal. 

One day he took too many drinks, got drunk and abused some 
white ladies who had refused to give him anything. They com- 
plained to the police and he was arrested and locked up. Then 
the unlocked for and unsuspected happened. 

So soon as the news of his arrest spread among his friends, 
negro women began to arrive at the city jail to find out why 
their husband had been locked up. Wife after wife came and 
before long there were six wives anxious to get him out of jail. 
Each one asserted that she had "done been had dat man for 
two years." 

An investigation revealed the fact that he had old Brigham 
Young "skinned to a finish." They were only negro marriages, 
however, for no preacher or justice of the peace had officiated 
at any of them. Several of the wives fought among themselves 
and were locked up also. Then the recorder's court took a hand. 

The man was fined and given a jail sentence. He promptly 
paid his fine and left the city. He went to Galveston, but was 
run out at once by the police there and I have never seen nor 
heard of him since. 

* 'I' * 

A HEARSE, A BOY AND A BUM. 

ONCE or twice I have spoken of Old Man Pannell, the "old 
man" being used as a term of affection, for everybody 
loved him. He was one of the characters of the early 
days; was the only undertaker, or as it was called then, "sex- 
ton," here, and no self-respecting citizen felt that he was prop- 
erly buried unless the old man had done the job. 

Mr. Pannell was full of fun and enjoyed a joke as well as 
the next man, but he concealed the fact as much as possible, 
put on a woebegone expression to accord with his calling and, 
before his death, had become the typical professional burier. 

From time to time his love for fun would crop out, but he 
never permitted such a breach of ethics while on duty. A pauper 
was buried in Potters Field with as much solemnity as was the 
merchant in the great cemetery. Of course the pauper did not 
ride in the fine hearse. 

Mr. Pannell had an old fashioned black hearse drawn by a 
little gray mare, which was used for second and third class 
funerals. He insisted, however, on having order and dignity 
and the little gray mare walked as quietly to and from the ceme- 
tery in front of the little black hearse with no carriages fol- 
lowing, as did the black steeds drawing the grand hearse at 
the head of a procession of carriages and buggies. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 197 

As I say, Mr. Pannell had the old black hearse, and the little 
gray mare and he had something more. He had a boy whom he 
had raised, named Rick Nolan. Rick was a typical boy, thought- 
less, hair-brained and ready to engage in anything that gave 
promise of fun, as all real boys are. Rick was placed in com- 
mand of the pauper hearse and the little gray mare, and he had 
not officiated at many "plantings" before he discovered that the 
little gray mare should have been on a race track rather than 
before a hearse. 

Potters Field was then located on the banks of the bayou 
beyond the San Felipe graveyard, and as that was away out in 
the country the San Felipe Road gave Rick as fine a race track 
for developing the speed of his gray mare as the heart could 
wish for. He would go out quietly enough but would come back 
at a 2:40 clip, racing everything in sight until he reached Main 
Street, when he would slow down and creep along as quiet as a 
mouse. 

Rick might have continued his sport indefinitely but for an 
accident. During the fall of 1866 a tough and wild-looking old 
"bum" and the cholera struck Houston. The bum might have 
remained in obscurity, but not so the cholera. It was something 
new. 

The people knew all about yellow fever and after the first 
panic among the tenderfeet, the situation was accepted and 
everything ran along as usual. They knew nothing of cholera, 
however, and its advent produced a genuine and lasting panic. 
Every man was afraid of his neighbor and friend whom he re- 
garded as the carrier of the fatal germs. Storiep of miraculous 
cures, of apparently well men falling dead, of apparently dead 
men coming to life, and all such things, became current and 
everybody believed them. 

Now just when this nervous tension was greatest Rick was 
called on to bury a negro out in the Potters Field. He per- 
formed his duty and started back. Just as he reached San 
Felipe Road he encountered the bum mentioned above. The 
bum asked for a ride to town, but as that was almost a capital 
offense in Mr. Pennell's eyes, Rick wisely refused. 

Then the bum offered him ten cents to take him to town. Rick 
was tempted and fell, but he insisted that the bum get inside 
the hearse and lie down so no one could see him, and that he 
get out when Main Street was reached. The bum agreed and 
got in. Rick drove along quietly until within a few blocks of 
Main Street. 

Then he concluded to give his passenger a touch of high life. 
He gathered up his reins and hit the mare a sharp lash with the 
whip. That settled it and in a moment Rick realized that he 
had overplayed his hand. The mare took the bit between her 
teeth and bolted. 

Main Street was reached in a jiffy and people along that high- 
way were horrified to see an apparently crazy mare dashing 
toward town, having in tow a dilapidated hearse containing a 



198 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"dead" man who was making frantic efforts to escape. Tlie door 
of the hearse was latched on the outside so the bum could not 
open it, but he was doing his best to do so. 

Everybody who saw the thing concluded that the hearse panic 
was due entirely to the revival of the dead man and that Rick 
was trying to get away in his terror. 

Down Main Street the frightful rush came. When a point was 
reached about half way between Texas Avenue and Prairie, the 
tramp in desperation, kicked the door open and tumbled out, 
doing some excellent grand and lofty tumbling after striking the 
ground. He picked himself up and started for the sidewalk, 
but his appearance had inaugurated a new and genuine panic. 

Everybody fled from him. People rushed into shops and stores 
and barricaded the doors. Saloons were closed and he could 
not get within a hundred yards of those who failed to get in a 
place of safety. 

Being daylight, the ghost element was lacking, but the bum 
was regarded as a dead cholera victim and therefore as a perfect 
walking magazine of cholera germs. Some even went so far 
as to want to shoot him and have Nolan take him back and 
bury him sure enough. 

Finally the truth leaked out. Nolan was fired by Mr. Pannell 
and the people were so relieved to find that the bum was not 
what they thought he was that everybody joined in the laugh. 



BURIED TREASURES. 

WHEN I was a small boy I had an ambition, shared 
largely by other boys of my age, to grow up as rapidly 
as possible so that I would be big enough to go out 
and dig up buried treasures. That the treasures were there I 
never for a moment doubted and my only fear was that some 
one would beat me to them. My faith had something tangible 
to rest on, too, for at that time it was generally believed that 
the great pirate, Lafitte, had buried his treasure, not on Galves- 
ton Island, but somewhere on the mainland. The discovery of 
the grave of the wife of one of his lieutenants off the north side 
of Clear Lake, not far from where Seabrook now stands, gave 
much basis for the belief that Lafitte made Clear (Lake his head- 
quarters and it was generally supposed that he buried his treas- 
ures there. Just why he should want to bury his treasures at 
all, no one undertook to explain, but as that was a long accepted 
habit, characteristic of all pirates, Lafitte was held to be no 
exception and the burial of his treasures was accepted as a fact. 
Now, something that gave the buried treasure theory a de- 
cided boost was the periodical appearance in Houston of a most 
disreputable looking character, who came from time to time 
from no one knew where, to indulge in a ten days' or two weeks' 
drunk and then to disappear as mysteriously as he had appeared. 
He was a villainously looking Greek or Italian, had but one eye 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 199 

and a scar from a sabre or knife cut across his cheek. His 
looks were sufficient to have proven him an ex-pirate, but in 
addition to that he always brought with him a lot of gold and 
silver coins of ancient date, Mexican and Spanish money. He 
was watched carefully, but no one ever discovered where he 
came from or went to. No one ever doubted his having been 
one of Lafitte's men and I am confident that every boy in 
Houston had implicit faith that this old fellow was the last sur- 
vivor of Lafitte's gang and knew where all the treasure was 
buried. After a while the old fellow's visits ceased and as time 
wore on interest in him and his treasure ceased also. There was 
too little information about Lafitte's movements and none at 
all to show that he ever buried any treasure at all, so when 
the old pirate ceased to visit Houston, the people soon forgot 
him and all he was supposed to represent. 

Now, while the existence of the Lafitte treasure was merely 
a matter of supposition, there was another treasure which was 
known to exist and which is known to exist today. That is the 
$600,000 in Mexican money known to have been buried some- 
where on the Santa Fe trail between the San Jacinto River and 
the Brazos River. I don't know the exact date, but it was some 
time in the early 30's that a party of Mexicans started from 
East Texas for Mexico over the Santa Fe trail. They had with 
them $600,000 in Mexican money, government money. At somte 
point between San Jacinto River and Brazos River this party 
was attacked by Indians. They took refuge in a sweet-gum 
island (a clump of trees on the prairie called an island) near a 
creek. They buried the money in a hole and then put up a 
fight against the Indians. The Indians were in strong force and 
the result was that all the Mexicans except one were killed. One 
escaped, though he was so badly wounded that he died soon after 
reaching a settlement and telling the story of the disaster, 
though he could not give the location of the fight nor any definite 
information beyond the fact that it was in an "island" on the 
banks of a creek. 

Hundreds of people have searched for that "island," but its 
location has never been found. At one time it was thought that 
it was found, when some cowboys discovered a lot of arrowheads 
sticking in a sweet-gum tree on Cypress Creek, in the west part 
of Harris County. Those cowboys got spades and shovels, but 
though they literally tore the earth up for hundreds of yards 
all through and around that "island," they found nothing. On 
another occasion a German farmer while out hunting for cattle 
found a Mexican dollar sticking in the bank of Cypress Creek 
not far from where the Houston and Texas Central Railroad 
crosses that creek. He showed the dollar, told where he had 
found it, and some of his auditors who had heard the story of 
the buried treasure, spoke of it and at once there was another 
rush of diggers. The search was very thorough, but nothing 
was found and the treasure remains today where the ill-fated 
Mexicans buried it four score years ago. 



200 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Some rather pathetic and other rather amusing things have 
been connected with that buried treasure. One or two men be- 
came so fascinated by it that they devoted their lives to search- 
ing for it. I met one of them in 1873 and spent a night with 
him at his camp on Cypress Creek. I think his name was Shook 
or Schukes, Louis Hillendahl, who lives at Spring Branch, 
knew him well and told me the old man did nothing but search 
for that Mexican money. He was so certain that it was located 
in Harris County on Cypress Creek that he would search no- 
where else for it. 

Sometime about 1878 or 1879, Charley Fingerman, who was a 
great musician in Houston, and who is well remembered in 
Houston, heard of the treasure and determined to find it scien- 
tifically. Charley had married a lady who was a spirit medium 
and had the power of calling up the dead. He was about half 
way a convert, though only half way, but he was enough so to 
lay all the facts before his wife and consult her. "A sitting" 
was had and the spirits promptly told them where the treasure 
was and how to go about finding it. They were told to take a 
table with them and place it out on the prairie about a hundred 
yards from a certain island on Cypress and then to await de- 
velopments. They did as directed. Charley told me the story 
himself. He said the day was very hot, for it was summer and 
that he had slipped a few bottles of beer in a basket to prevent 
sunstroke. When they got to the creek he slipped off, took a 
good drink of whiskey and washed it down with a bottle of beer. 
He said it was so hot he needed something to strengthen his 
faith. There were five or six people in the party, all women 
except Charley. After he had his drink they took the table out 
on the prairie as directed. They gathered about it and put 
their hands on it. Charley said his faith increased by leaps 
and bounds when the table at once began jumping up and 
down and started off hopping in the direction of the "island." 
The table led them into the little grove, and going to a large 
tree, halted and began jumping up and down. Charley was so 
excited that he nearly forgot to drink another bottle of beer 
when he went down to the creek to get his digging tools. The 
table was set aside and Charley went to work with his spade 
and for two hours labored faithfully. He found nothing. The 
ladies consulted over the situation while Charley slipped off to 
refresh himself. 

Finally it was agreed to try it over, so the table was taken 
out on the prairie again where it cut up exactly as it had done 
before. When it led them back to the "island" it took them in 
at one of the sides and stopped at another tree. Charley went 
to the creek, took another big drink of whiskey and a bottle 
of beer and returned to his work again. This time he dug and 
dug, not only at the place indicated by the table, but for yards 
all around it in every direction. Finally his patience was ex- 
hausted and rising in his wrath he kicked the table over, cursing 
both it and the spirits. That settled it right there, for the indig- 



HO USTON AND HOUSTONIANS 201 

nant spirits waslied their hands of the whole affair and quit in 
disgust. The ladies were horrified. The table was carried out 
on the prairie again, but the insult was too deadly. They 
placed their hands on the table, sang soothing songs and began 
to plead with the spirits, but it was no use, the table refused to 
move. At last they took their hands off the table and tried to 
put them on Charley, but he was too quick for them and made 
his escape. Charley's wife and all the ladies blamed him for 
the disaster and said that if he had not gotten drunk they would 
have found all that money; that the spirits were testing their 
faith and would have led them to the proper place the third 
time if he had not spilled over and spoiled everything. Charley 
defended himself as well as he could and finally made peace 
with them, but they could never get him to go on another treas- 
ure hunt under the guidance of the spirits. 

* * * 

TROUBLESOME GHOSTS. 

HOUSTON has had its full quota of haunted houses. There 
have been a number of them in different parts of the 
town and, no doubt, if one took the trouble to look for 
them, others could be found today just as real and just as scary 
as were the old ones. The old ones, of which I speak, were 
conducted by quite a variety of "hants." There were serious 
minded ghosts, lively ghosts, noisy ghosts and others who said 
or did nothing, but who merely made their presence felt in the 
most awe-inspiring way. I have had personal experience with 
all the varieties, for I was ever curious about such matters and 
never let an opportunity pass to make an investigation, and I 
can say from my own experience that the worst ghost of all 
is the one you can neither see nor hear, but which you can 
"feel" is in a room or some part of the house with you, and 
which you fear is going to lay hands on you at any moment. 

Occasionally one meets an amusing, though mischievous, 
ghost or set of ghosts and it is of that sort I am going to speak 
now. I am not afraid of the story not being believed, for not 
only is it absolutely true, but there must be hundreds of citizens 
yet living who will remember all about it when they read this. 
It was too remarkable an occurrence to have escaped their minds 
completely. The only point on which I am doubtful is the 
exact year it occurred, but I am rather certain it was in 1869. 
That, however, is a minor matter. 

One evening during the summer of, let us say 1869, a saloon- 
keeper who lived out on McKinney Avenue, two or three blocks 
beyond Austin Street, took his seat with his wife at the supper 
table. They had scarcely commenced the meal when half a 
brick, coming from nowhere, apparently, landed on the table, 
smashing a dish, and rolled off on the floor. The man rushed 
out of the house, thinking some one had thrown the brick 
through the window or door, but he saw no one. He returned 
to the supper room and as he entered it another half brick 



202 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

smashed a picture frame that was hanging on the wall. Then 
other bricks and things began to fall on top of the house and 
on its sides. 

This bombardment continued for several days and the house 
soon presented the appearance of a general wreck. There was 
not a pane of glass left and everything breakable in the home 
was in fragments. A remarkable thing was that while all the 
window panes were broken none of the woodwork of the win- 
dow was touched. The place became famous and hundreds of 
people watched and guarded the vacant blocks all around there 
every night, but still the missiles came. I was there one night 
when the bone of a cow's leg, a tin can, a large piece of wood 
and a brickbat were hurled all together against the front of 
the house with great force. It would seem that numerous acci- 
dents would have happened and that many people would have 
been injured by such promiscuous bombarding, yet I believe that 
only one person, the occupant of the house, was ever struck and 
his injury was trifling. 

Many theories were advanced to account for such things, the 
most popular one being that it was the work of some enemy of 
the man, but the fatal error in that theory, aside from the man's 
statement that he had no enemy, was to account for the way in 
which such enemy accomplished the feat of hurling the pro- 
jectiles without being caught in the act of doing so. One or two 
hundred people guarded the house on all sides and in every direc- 
tion and yet no one ever saw anything that could account for 
the phenomenon. It would seem impossible for a half brickbat 
to be hurled from a great distance through a window pane with- 
out touching any of the woodwork and then have it smash a 
picture or looking glass hanging on the wall with unfailing ac- 
curacy, and yet that was exactly what occurred night after night. 

Finally everybody gave it up and left the poor fellow alone 
at the mercy of the ghosts. The bombardment continued for 
some time and finally the man concluded to go to headquarters 
for a solution of the problem. He went to a spirit medium. One 
or two "sittings" were held and he was informed that there was 
great wealth buried in the earth under the house and that he 
must bore for it. I forget whether it was oil or gold they told 
him was there. His house stood immediately over the place 
where he must bore, but under no circumstances must he move 
the house. He was absolutely desperate by now, for his house 
was a wreck surrounded by cartloads of bricks, bones, tin cans 
and every other kind of trash one could think of. He was will- 
ing to do anything to get rid of the ghosts, so he sought out 
a well-borer, made a contract with him and in a few days work 
was begun. A derrick was erected on top of the house, a hole 
was cut through the roof and through the floors and the well 
boring commenced. So soon as active operations were com- 
menced the ghosts quit. Not another stone was thrown from 
that time. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 203 

The boring continued for several weeks and almost as many 
people went out to see the well bored as had gone to try to see 
the ghosts, for it was a strange sight to see a well being bored 
right through the roof of a house. I don't know whatever re- 
sulted from sinking the well beyond the fact that the ghosts were 
apparently pleased to have living beings complete the destruction 
of the man's house which they had begun, and so withdrew from 
the job. If gold or oil were ever found the man kept it a pro- 
found secret, for no one ever heard of it. 

Those ghosts were amusing fellows, that is for everybody ex- 
cept the owner of the property, and as the spectators were gen- 
erally out in the yard with plenty of company it was not the 
least scary to be there. I afterward had experience with one of 
the silent fellows, one of those kind you can neither see nor 
hear, but whom you can "feel" is there all right. I stayed in a 
room with one of these one night until after midnight. Then 
the lamp went out suddenly, something blew in my ear and I 
left. I can give the street and number of this place, but I will 
not do so, for I passed it the other day and saw on its front: 
"Furnished Rooms to Rent." I don't want to empty the place, 
and while it is a good story and absolutely true, I will not tell it. 



SINCLAIR'S GOAT RACES. 

ONE hot day during the summer of 1892, Wm. R. Sinclair 
and Nat Floyd were standing on Congress Avenue near 
the corner of Main Street when two boys came along 
driving two dilapidated-looking goats, hitched to wagons made 
out of soap boxes and mounted on baby buggy wheels. Sin- 
clair's attention was drawn to the activities of the two boys 
who were trying to get some action out of their respective goats. 
Turning to Floyd, Sinclair said: 

"Floyd, I'll bet you that the far goat beats the other to the 
courthouse." 

"What'll you bet?" asked Floyd. 

"Drinks for you and me and a quarter as a prize for the 
winner of the race," said Sinclair. 

"You're on," said Floyd. "Line up your goats." 

Sinclair halted the two boys and explained the situation to 
them and they readily agreed to make the race. Sinclair and 
Floyd got out in the street and began the preliminaries. 

At that time Congress Avenue had a so-called pavement, but 
it was good on one side only. There were no traffic laws then, 
as now, so anybody used the side of the street that seemed best 
or more convenient. The result was that only one side of the 
street being used when the two newspaper men took charge of 
the goats, they blocked traffic in both ways. A big crowd began 
gathering and everybody wanted to know who had been killed, 
what accident had happened or what was the matter. Floyd and 
Sinclair made no answer, but went ahead with their work. Just 



204 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

as they got their goats in line a rough voice was heard and then 
Captain Jack White showed up behind the voice. The moment 
he saw Sinclair he knew something wrong was going on. 

"Oh, it's you, you rascal," he said, addressing Sinclair. "I 
could have closed my eyes and known that some devil's work 
was on foot had I known you were here. What are you going 
to do now. It's nothing for the peace and law and order, I 
know." 

"Why Captain White," said a lady who was in the crowd. "The 
gentleman has done nothing wrong that you should speak to 
him that way. He and the other gentleman are assisting those 
two boys to do something, that's all." 

"Madam," said Captain Jack, "Ye do not know this chap as I 
know him. He has given me more trouble than all the other 
rascals in town. Wherever he goes and wherever he stops I look 
for trouble. It may look innocent to you, but I know better, 
and think I'd best take him in just to avoid trouble." 

It may be said right here, that Captain Jack White thought 
Sinclair one of the finest fellows in the world, and while he 
abused him to his face, it would not have been a healthy thing 
for anyone else to do in Captain Jack's hearing. 

"Now, Captain," said Sinclair, "keep your shirt on. Floyd 
and I are doing nothing except trying to pull off a goat race and 
we can't get the street clear of carts, wagons and horses." Sin- 
clair then told the captain of the bet with Floyd and the prize 
for the boy who won. 

"Is that all you're doing?" said the captain. "Clear the way 
there," he shouts, waving his club, and in a few moments he had 
the right side of Congress Avenue clear from Travis Street 
down to the courthouse. There were five hundred people lined 
up on the sidewalks to see that initial race and the winner was 
cheered to the echo. 

That, briefly, is a history of the beginning of Sinclair's famous 
goat races which for a time attracted national interest and 
attention. 

While Sinclair never had much in common with a goat he 
always had a great deal in common with a boy and was a bigger 
crank about boys than .Tud Lewis is about babies. He was 
every newsboy's friend and confidential adviser and knew all 
their trials and tribulations much better than their parents did. 
Whatever he said do they did. His influence was not confined 
to the newsboys, but extended to every boy in Houston. That 
being true, it was an easy thing for him to organize the boys 
into a great racing association, goats being the "ponies" used. 

Sinclair took only the boys in his confidence and no one knew 
of the first goat race imtil Sinclair announced, in the morning 
paper, that it would occur one afternoon on San Jacinto Street 
and would be run from Preston Avenue to Congress Avenue. 
That afternoon San Jacinto Street was lined on both sides for 
the entire length of the course. Everybody was talking goat 
and the whole town thought of nothing else. A committee of 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 205 

leading citizens called on Sinclair and asked him to organize a 
grand race for the next year, to be held where everybody 
could see it. Magnolia Park, then in its glory, was selected as the 
place. Sinclair got busy and after talking to his boys they went 
to work with a will and soon every boy in Houston who could 
beg, buy or borrow a goat had a private training establishment 
of his own. The morning newspaper gave Sinclair all the space 
he wanted and when he began his "publicity" work he had the 
publicity department of the No-Tsu-Oh of today looking like 
thirty cents. The state papers entered into the spirit of the 
thing and Houston's Goat Races were soon the best advertised 
things in the state. 

Next year, 1893, Sinclair grew ambitious and invited Governor 
Hogg to come to Houston and act as official goat starter. The 
governor was equal to the occasion and promptly accepted the 
great honor. That cinched things. The idea of a great governor 
of a great state like Texas, leaving his arduous duties to come 
to Houston to start goat races, caught the people and the rail- 
roads at once established excursion rates to Houston from all 
parts of the state. 

When the great day came, every bank, the railroad shops, every 
wholesale and retail house in Houston was closed and the day 
was made a real holiday. By noon there was hardly a man or 
woman to be seen in the city, and not a single boy. Everybody 
had gone to Harrisburg, where the races were held. 

It is out of the question to attempt to describe the scenes on 
the grounds. Hundreds of prizes had been offered by the mer- 
chants and everybody had contributed something for the pleasure 
of the boys. There were tons of watermelons and hundreds of 
cases of soda water. There were regular hills of cakes and 
pies and nothing could have been more attractive to the average 
boy than the display of good things to eat and drink.. 

Captain Jack White was about right when he told the lady that 
Sinclair could not keep from doing something outrageous. Sin- 
clair had invited the governor to come to Houston and had given 
him the coolest place to rest in during the heat of the day, 
namely, the tent where the watermelons were stored, amid chunks 
of ice. When Sinclair saw the big governor sitting back, fanning 
himself, the devil tempted him and he fell. He got about two 
hundred boys, drew them up in line behind the tent and told 
them that the first boy to get in the tent from the rear could 
have the biggest melon. Then he gave the signal to charge and 
the next moment Governor Hogg, chunks of watermelon and 
two hundred boys were struggling amid the torn-down tent. It 
was merely a side play, but the governor enjoyed it as much as 
anyone. 

After that race Houston became famous as a sporting center, 
and before long a challenge was received from Pittsburg, Pa., 
saying that Pittsburg had the fastest goat in the world and that 
if the Houston champion would come up there Pittsburg's pet 
would wipe up the earth with him. The challenge was promptly 



206 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

accepted. Sinclair sent his champion goat and boy owner, a 
young chap named Bailey, and when the race came off "Black 
Bill" won and was officially declared to be the Champion Fast 
Goat of the World. 

The people of Houston used to turn out to welcome the Hous- 
ton Light Guard when they came back home victorious from an 
interstate drill, but those Light Guard receptions sank into in- 
significance compared to that given "Black Bill" when he re- 
turned from Pittsburg. Everybody, who did not have a broken 
leg, was down at the depot, and when Black Bill and his proud 
owner appeared, the heavens were rent with cheers. A proces- 
sion was formed and, headed by a brass band, marched down 
Main Street. It was a day of triumphant rejoicing. 

I think that if proper influence were used, Sinclair could be 
induced to revive those famous races. He is just as great a 
favorite with the Houston boys now as he was with those of years 
ago and he can get them to do things quicker and more heartily 
than any other man alive. 



FISHING IN THE BAYOU. 

SATURDAY afternoon I saw two or three little negroes 
coming across the Preston Avenue bridge, and each one 
had a small string of very small perch. They told me 
that they had been fishing away above Glenwood Cemetery, in 
Buffalo Bayou. The sight of those fish carried me back many 
years, for when I was a boy, fishing was one of the greatest de- 
lights of my life. There were plenty of fish here, too, and both 
Buffalo Bayou and White Oak Bayou were famous fishing places. 
I believe, on the whole, that White Oak was the best fishing 
stream, though both were good. There were perch, goggle-eyes, 
as we called them; sun-perch, gasper-gou, catfish, suckers and 
last, but not least, thousands of buffalo. 

There was more fun in catching buffaloes than in catching 
anything else, though after we had caught them they were so 
full of bones no one could eat them. We never fished for the 
table, however, so the eating feature cut no figure with us. The 
method of catching them was simple. We would buy some fish 
berries at the drug store, mash them up carefully and then mix 
them with cornmeal and cotton, so as to form balls about the 
size of a marble. We would boil these in a pot and then dry 
them out thoroughly. After we had prepared our fish balls we 
would get in a boat and row along solwly, throwing the balls in 
all the deep holes. In about half an hour we would return over 
the same course and then we would find a lot of fish on a regular 
spree. The berries would make them so drunk that they would 
flop around on top of the water and would actually try to climb 
up the banks of the bayou. All we had to do was to row along 
slowly and pick them up. I believe it has been made against 
the law to fish in that way now, though I don't see why, since 



HO USTON AND HOUSTONIANS 207 

the fish will get over their drunk in a little while and -wU^ ^® 
as live and active as ever. Very few of them that we came in 
contact with, ever had a chance to reform or get sober either, 
for we had an idea that the fish had to be cleaned at once, other- 
wise they would poison any one who ate them. 

One sport I used to enjoy more than anything was catching big 
catfish. White Oak Bayou used to be famous for its big cat- 
fish, and I have caught many fine ones over there. 

Saturdays were always busy days for the boy fishermen. We 
made up parties, and, starting early in the morning, we covered 
every famous place for miles around Houston. There was not a 
deep hole, a sunken log or other place where fish congregate that 
was not known to us. We took lunch with us and made a day 
of it, returning long after sundown. ^ 

We had lots of fun in every way, for something funny was 
bound to happen before the day ended. Once Joe Harris, Charley 
Harris, Dick Fuller, Will Palmer and Andrew Hutchison were 
fishing in a big kole up on White Oak Bayou. The current had 
dug out both banks of the stream, making it very wide as well 
as very deep. Joe went up the bayou and crossed over to the 
opposite side, so as to try his luck there. The bank was very 
steep, right down to the water's edge, but he managed to secure 
a foothold and commenced fishing. We were all very quiet, for 
it was against the rules to talk while we were fishing, so we 
could hear even the faintest sound in the woods for some dis- 
tance. After a while we heard a frog squeaking off in the dis- 
tance behind Joe Harris. 

"Squeak," "squeak," it came oftener and apparently coming 
nearer. Joe made some remark about the frog, when a good- 
sized fish got on his line and he began to play him, all of us 
forgetting our rules and shouting out directions to him what to 
do. Right in the midst of our excitement that frog put in a 
personal appearance. He reached the top of the high bank im- 
mediately behind and over Joe, and seeing the bayou so near, he 
made a desperate leap and landed safely in the water. 

The next moment the haste of the frog was explained, for a 
great big snake that looked like a show snake in a circus, he 
was so big and ugly, came tearing over the bank. The snake 
was going so fast in its efforts to catch the frog that it was over 
the side of the bank and coming right down on Joe before it 
saw him. The snake made a desperate effort to stop or turn 
aside, bue it was all in vain, for he came down, writhing and 
twisting, and would have certainly collided with Joe, had the 
latter given him a chance to do so. As it was, Joe was too 
quick for the snake, for before it reached him, he threw aside 
his fishing pole, went head foremost into the bayou and the next 
instant was on our side. We could never decide whether Joe 
or the snake was the worst scared. Joe really got some advan- 
tage out of the snake's interruption, for it enabled him to lie for 
the balance of the day about the size of that fish he had on his 
line when the snake broke in. 



208 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

There must have been thousands of black bass in the bayous 
at that time, but no one suspected their presence because no 
one knew how to fish for them. A few years ago Dick Fuller 
devised a plan, or rather found suitable bait for them and since 
then has caught hundreds of them above Shepherd's dam. The 
fact that Dick can catch black bass is no argument that anybody 
else can catch them, for he can come as near catching fish on 
dry land where there are no fish, as anything. As the negro 
says: "Mr. Dick shore is a fishin' man." 

Speaking of Shepherd's dam reminds me of a little natural 
history I learned some years ago. When the waterworks built 
the first dam across the bayou near their plant, there was a 
broad sandy bar formed just below the dam. One day I took 
a crab net and scooped along the bottom to try to catch some 
small fish for bait. When I took the net up I found in it one 
or two small flounders. I made several dips and caught several 
more. It was evident that they had come up with the tide and 
had been stopped by the dam. I never knew until then that 
flounders bred in fresh water. I never heard of a large flounder 
being caught in the bayou, so they evidently return to the bay or 
gulf before they attain any size. 

But then Buffalo Bayou is full of surprises. Some years ago 
Dave McNally, who lived not far from the bayou, discovered a 
porpoise down about the foot of Louisiana Street. It was a real 
sea porpoise, too. Dave notified Albert Erichson of his discovery 
and Albert went down and shot it. When it was shot it was 
about at the foot of Smith Street. They pulled it out of the 
water and exhibited it as long as they could, which was until 
the health officer threatened to get after them for keeping a 
nuisance on hand. Then they got a big pot and made oil out of 
the porpoise and made a lot of it, too. I don't think a whale 
has ever come up the bayou, but I would not be surprised to 
hear that one had. 

"I* * * 

THUGS AND YELLOW FEVER. 

LAST Sunday I spoke of the first Federal troops that ever 
came to Houston, "the army of occupation," and told of 
the good conduct of the men and of the conservative ad- 
ministration of the officers. Of course, in an army such as that, 
there were "toughs" and a few of those broke out from time to 
time and caused trouble. However, they did not always get 
away with the play, for when a sixshooter was at that time as 
much a part of a man's toilet as his boots or shoes, there were 
always two sides to an attempted knockdown and robbery or the 
creation of a "hot house," when circumstances did not justify 
such creation. Of course while the town was under military 
rule — as a fact, if not really so in name — it was not a healthy 
thing for a citizen to kill a soldier, no matter what the provoca- 
tion might be, so that while two or three such killings did occur, 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 209 

those who did such excellent killings took good pains to avoid 
taking credit for them. 

The slungshots used by the thugs were made of lead and were 
about the size of a large egg. They were fastened to a leather 
thong and this was slipped over the wrist and securely knotted 
there. It was a fearful weapon and with it skulls and bones 
could be easily crushed. An old German was found on Washing- 
ton Street one morning with a crushed skull, while a negro had 
his shoulder smashed somewhere out on Main Street. No doubt 
there were other cases, but if so, I have forgotten them. I do 
remember three casualties on the other side. One was a soldier 
found on Main Street just above where the Rice Hotel stands. 
He had been shot through the head and the slungshot attached to 
his wrist told the story of why he had been shot. Another was 
a soldier found one morning at daylight just in front of the gate 
of the old Episcopal Cemetery. He, too, was shot through the 
head, but as the ball entered at the back the supposition was that 
he had missed his victim when he struck at him with the slung- 
shot and had then tried to get away. The slungshot attached to 
his right wrist told what part he had played in the tragedy. 
Another case that occurred out on Main Street had more of the 
ludicrous than the tragic about it. A negro was going home late 
one night. He was met by a soldier, who walked directly up 
to him and without a word made a lick at him with his slung- 
shot. Instinctively the negro threw up both hands to protect 
his head and the lead ball struck him on the palm of his right 
hand. His hand closed and he hung on for dear life. He was 
afraid to turn loose and the soldier, having the leather thong 
knotted around his wrist, could not get loose. They fought and 
struggled there, the negro shouting "murder," "help," at the top 
of his voice. They made such a row that people in the neigh- 
borhood were aroused and help came. The soldier was captured 
and taken to the provost officer in the old courthouse. He was 
locked up and presumably punished, though I never heard how. 

Soon after the troops had been located at desirable points in 
the state the reason for their presense was more apparent. All 
state, county and city officials, who had been chosen by the 
people, were turned out of office and their successors appointed 
by the president of the United States and by the state officials 
so appointed, and the work of "reconstruction" was begun. 
Houston was reconstructed, of course, and though it had escaped 
all the horrors of war, it was made to realize that there are 
some things worse than war. A lot of "scalawags" were put in 
office and as they were backed by Federal bayonets, they pro- 
ceeded to loot the county and city in the most up-to-date manner. 
But I do not intend to say anything on that subject now, but 
shall simply jot down some memories that come to me as my 
mind goes back to the long ago. 

The army was not much in evidence, for its mere presence 
was all that was necessary to give the looters free hand. The 
citizens accepted the inevitable and did the best they could. 



210 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

For about eighteen months a sort of armed peace existed between 
the soldiers and citizens and then, in 1867, the great yellow fever 
epidemic broke out. With hundreds of soldiers, camp followers 
and "carpetbaggers" from the North, who had never been ex- 
posed to yellow fever, the camps and town were soon hotbeds of 
pestilence and the death rate was appalling. 

At that time there was only one undertaker or "funeral di- 
rector" in Houston, though he called himself and was called by 
others the "city sexton."' He was known to every man, woman 
and child in Houston as "Old Man" Pannel, the "old man" 
being a term of affection, for in spite of his gloomy calling every- 
body loved "Old Man" Pannel. He was a great character and 
one of the most uncompromising "rebels" that the South ever 
produced. He never was reconstructed and died as he had 
lived, hating the "Yankees" to the end. At first he was con- 
stantly in hot water and was once or twice taken to headquar- 
ters by the guard of soldiers because of his intemperate lan- 
guage, but finally the commander concluded that he would have 
to do one or two things — shoot Pannel or ignore him altogether, 
and wisely concluded to follow the latter course. 

When the yellow fever broke out Pannell found himself the 
busiest man in Houston, for in addition to bis regular customers 
in the city, he had to provide for the dead soldiers. He hired 
negroes with drays, negro grave diggers and extra carpenters 
to make coffins, but with all that he was swamped. The soldiers 
died faster than he could bury them. There was an accumula- 
tion of dead soldiers at the camp and the officers became sus- 
picious of Pannel and had him arrested for not performing his 
duty. He was taken before the commander, who said to him: 
"Mr. Pannel, they tell me you dislike to bury my soldiers." 
"General," said Pannel, "whoever told you that told a damned 
lie. It's the pleasantest thing I've had to do in years and I 
can't get enough of it. I would like to bury every damned one 
of you." 

The interview ended abruptly, for the general ordered Pannel 
to jail. He did not stay long, for his services were in too great 
demand and he was released and went back to work. According 
to his story, he had his revenge. "You see," he would say, 
"these Yankees think a nigger is as good as they are and better 
than we are, so I'm giving them their own medicine. In mixing 
up the cards, so to speak, I plant a nigger and then I plant a 
white soldier. Sometimes I put a white one with three or four 
niggers and then I reverse it and put a nigger with three or four 
white ones. Those relatives up North are going to have a hell 
of a time getting things straight and the chances are that 
some nigger is going to rest under a big tombstone meant for 
a white man." Pannel died years ago and with him passed away 
one of the most remarkable characters that ever lived in Houston. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 211 

EARLY TRAGEDIES. 

AN evening or two ago I dropped in to see some moving 
pictures on the southeast corner of Prairie Avenue and 
Main Street. While I watched a mimic tragedy pictured 
on the screen, it occurred to me that identical locality had been 
the scene of more real tragedies than any other place in Hous- 
ton, or perhaps any other single point in Texas. The reason is 
obvious when it is said that on that corner was located one of 
the most fashionable saloons in town and that the spacious sec- 
ond story was devoted to gambling and billiards. 

Before the war the saloon was owned and run by a man named 
Charles Harris. He was a man of good manners and consid- 
erable polish: was known to be a "square man" and had nu- 
merous friends. In those days the modern club was unknown, 
and lawyers, doctors, bankers, merchants, and in fact every- 
body went in saloons and billiard halls and thought no more of 
doing so than they do today of going to a restaurant or a soda 
fountain. Harris, as I have said, was popular and his place was 
generally well filled, while the billard hall and faro bank upstairs 
did a thriving business. 

Now, when gambling and whiskey get together there is more 
than apt to be trouble, and Harris' place was a shining example 
of the truth of this. There were a number of very large syca- 
more and Cottonwood trees growing both on the Main Street 
and the Prairie Street side of the place, so Harris chose as a 
name for his saloon "The Shades." On one occasion a young 
lawyer congratulated Harris on the appropriateness of the name, 
but suggested that it would be still more appropriate if he could 
have the "S" painted out and leave it "Hades." "Then," said 
he, "the only objection that could be raised is that yours is the 
home of imported spirits while the other is the home of exported 
spirits." 

When I was a little fellow I remember seeing a big black- 
smith, who had a shop on Travis Street, between Preston and 
Prairie Avenues, come running out of the saloon with something 
that looked like an axe-handle in his hand. He was closely 
followed by another man, without a hat, whose head and face 
were covered with blood. This man had a big bowie knife in 
his hand and just before the blacksmith reached the corner 
where Dr. Robert's residence stood, but where now stands the 
Lumbermans National Bank, he caught up with the blacksmith 
and sank the knife in his shoulder. The blacksmith turned and 
dealt him a terriffic blow with his stick, and both fell in the 
street. I don't think either was killed. I know the blacksmith 
was not, for on the following San Jacinto Day, I saw another 
fellow chase him from the north side of market square clear 
to his shop, which he reached in time to shut the door and keep 
the other fellow out. This other fellow had an ugly looking 
bowie knife, too, but his friends came up and took him away. I 
don't remember the name of the blacksmith, but I judge from 



212 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

what I saw of him when I was a boy that he must have been 
rather contentious and fond of bickering and argument. 

I remember, when a child, hearing of shootings and cuttings at 
"The Shades," but I was too young to grasp the details. The 
first tragedy that came under my personal observation occurred 
about 1858 or 1859. I was coming up Prairie Avenue from the 
direction of the bayou. When about Travis Street I saw a small 
man struggling out in Main Street with a big fat man. The big 
man had the small man grasped from behind and was evidently 
trying to prevent him using a six-shooter he held in his hand. 
At a window on the second floor of the building another man ap- 
peared and poked what looked like a walking cane out of the 
window. The movement of the two struggling in the street be- 
came more animated and then the little man turned his pistol 
under his arm and shot the big man through the chest. The 
big fellow dropped and without turning to look at him, the little 
fellow began shooting at the man upstairs. 

It was all over in a moment. The little man in the street 
was one of the leading business men of Houston, while the man 
upstairs with the cane was a fashionable physician. There had 
been serious trouble between the two which had resulted in 
the merchant ordering the doctor to leave town within 24 hours. 
The 24 hours had expired that afternoon and the doctor still 
being in town the merchant had gone gunning for him. He 
armed himself with a shotgun and sixshooter and finding the 
doctor taking a drink in "The Shades," he pulled down on him. 
The doctor, whose back was to the door, saw his enemy in the 
looking glass and just as the gun was fired he dropped to the 
floor and the bartender, who was in front of him, received the 
full load in his chest. The doctor jumped to his feet and rushed 
for an enclosed stairway leading upstairs. Just as he was dis- 
appearing up the steps the merchant discharged the other barrel 
of his shotgunt at him. Only one buckshot took effect and that 
passed through the doctor's heel. The merchant then went out 
in the street, where he was grabbed by his too zealous friend, 
whom he had to shoot in order to have a chance to protect him- 
self from the doctor, who was armed with a rifled shooting cane. 

Two men were seriously wounded and the doctor was only 
slightly wounded, yet strange to say both got well, while the doc- 
tor took lockjaw and died a few days later. 

The next sensational shooting that took place there was just 
before the war. It was between one of the leading physicians 
of Houston on one side and a distinguished citizen of Texas, a 
veteran of the Mexican war, and his son on the other. Fortunate, 
while both father and son were terribly wounded, no one was 
killed and all three rose to prominence during the war that soon 
followed. 

There had been a feud of long standing between the doctor 
and the captain. Mutual friends had patched this up and no 
one was looking for trouble between the two. The captain and 
his son came to town that morning and they had not been here 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 213 

long before the captain began abusing his old enemy and making 
threats against him. The doctor, hearing of this, went home, 
for his bravery and courage were of such high order that no 
one could question his motive and he could afford to do so in 
order to avoid trouble. About four o'clock sme injudicius 
friend went to the doctor's house and told him the captain was 
in "The Shades," abusing him and declaring that he (the doc- 
tor) had run to the hole. The doctor said nothing but after his 
friend had left he got his six-shooter and went down to "The 
Shades" to investigate. The captain and his son had gone up- 
stairs and were playing billiards. The doctor entered the room 
smoking a long-stemmed meerschaum pipe. Drawing his pistol 
he said: "Defend yourself, captain. I have come to kill you." 
The captain was as eager for a fight as was the doctor, but he 
was by no means as cool as the latter. They both fired together, 
the captain's shot going wild, but the doctor's ball piercing the 
captain's breast, who went down in a heap. Now right here 
occurred a repetition of what had occurred in the street a year 
or two before. Old man Pannel, the same I wrote about the 
other day, grabbed the doctor from behind and attempted to 
pinion his arms. The captain's son reversed his billard cue and 
was advancing on the doctor for the purpose of braining him 
with it. The doctor, finding it useless to argue with Pannell and 
being unable to free himself, turned his pistol on Pannell and shot 
him through the arm. Being free he then shot the captain's son 
and that ended the affair. The captain lingered between life and 
death for three or four months but got well. The son soon re- 
covered, while Pannell was taken in charge by the doctor and 
soon restored to health. 

Of course, there were a number of killings took place on this 
corner, where the killers and victims were sports and hard char- 
acters. I remember one or two of these, but I pass them by 
and use only the two I have given above, for they were between 
persons of high social prominence and serve to illustrate the 
cosmopolitan character of "The Shades," If I can use the term 
in that connection. 

* * * 

HOUSTON TURNVEREIN. 

THE other night I was passing along the Carolina Street side 
of the Turnverein grounds when it occurred to me that 
just in the middle of that block was where I had seen 
the first dead Confederate soldier. I saw thousands of dead 
ones after that but none that left such an impression on my 
mmd as did that first one. He was a member of the Turnverein 
company organized and commanded by Captain E. B. H. Schnei- 
der at the breaking out of the war. The company was one of 
the best that left Houston for the front and made quite a name 
for Itself. It was composed entirely of members of the Turn- 
verein, which organization had been perfected some years before 
•"^ he exact, the Verein was organized on January 14, 1854 and 



214 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

on the first page of its old minute book its story is told in the 
following simple and touching language: 

"We, the undersigned, assembled this forenoon in Gable's 
house, to confer in regard to the institution of a Turnverein. It 
was the wish of all to belong to a society where each feels as a 
brother to the other and lives for him and with him as a brother. 
We have, therefore, associated ourselves under a brotherly pres- 
sure of hands and promised each other to organize a Turnverein 
with energy and love in the cause and assure its existence by 
continued activity. 

"(Signed) T. Heitmann, F. Reitmann, Marschall, Louis Pless. 
John F. Thordale. Robert Voight, E. B. H. Schneider, August 
Sabath, E. Scheurer and L. Scheihagen. 

"Houston, January 14, 1854." 

Captain Schneider was a great athlete and to him was assigned 
the task of organizing a gymnastic class. He organized two — 
one for the men and one for the ladies. He was most thorough 
in his teaching and it was not long before the Houston Turners 
gained name and fame for themselves in athletic circles. 

At the beginning there were very few members, but it was 
not long before the association grew to such proportions that 
they were enabled to add other features to their gymnasium. 
A fire company was organized, a good German-English school 
was established and then, when war was talked of, the famous 
military company was organized, composed entirely of members 
of the Verein. It was of this company I started to tell you. 

Captain Schneider was born a soldier and had had a thorough 
military training, of course, before coming to this country. He 
at once started in to apply the most rigid discipline and ex- 
haustive methods in training his men to be soldiers. He would 
load them down with all their camp equipment, heavy guns and 
cartridge boxes and march them for hours, away out in the 
country and back again, and would put them through quick and 
double-quick time for the amusement of people who had gath- 
ered to see them drill. 

It was while putting the men through one of these gruelling 
marches that the soldier I speak of lost his life. The captain 
marched the company down San Jacinto Street to the bayou. 
The wharf was about eight feet high and the water was twelve 
or fifteen feet deep right up to the wharf. The captain marched 
the company right over the wharf into the bayou. He wanted 
them to cross to the other side and march on as if nothing had 
happened. After some floundering all the company except one 
man got across. Strange to say the one who failed was consid- 
ered the best swimmer and all-round athlete in the company, but 
he lost his life. The body was recovered almost immediately 
and was borne sorrowfully to the armory of the company, which 
was a modest little building near the middle of the block about 
where the hall is. The dead soldier was given a military fu- 
neral which was probably the first that occurred in Texas at the 
beginning of the war. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 215 

The people of Houston really do not appreciate what the 
Turners have done for the city and the state. The first semi- 
public school in Houston was established by the Turners two 
years after the close of the war. Those who could pay for the 
education of their children did so, but there was a deficit always 
and the Turners made this good from their treasury. By mis- 
representing the South the emigration agents were turning the 
tide of emigration to the West and North. To counteract this 
the Turners prepared and had printed, at their own expense, 
thousands of pamphlets which they sent broadcast over Ger- 
many and other points from which desirable emigrants were 
coming to this country. In this way they secured for Texas 
numbers of the best citizens the state has today. 

I say nothing of their record as musicians, for everybody 
knows that but for the Turners Houston would never have at- 
tained its prominence as a music-loving community as soon as 
it did, nor have attained the high position it now holds in the 
musical world. That is the one thing that everybody knows 
about the Turners, but the things I have mentioned. are not so 
generally known nor appreciated as they should be. 
* * * 

OLD SWIMMING HOLES. 

IF ever a place has been absolutely ruined and sent to the 
eternal bow-wows by modern improvement and expansion, 
that place is Houston, judged from a boy's point of view. 
Huge buildings of stone and brick, paved streets, factories and 
shops of all kinds are well enough for the grownups, but they 
are not conducive to that unalloyed happiness the old-time boys 
enjoyed. I don't know how the modern boy gets any enjoyment 
at all out of life. If he wants to learn to swim he is given les- 
sons in a tank. If he wants to go fishing he has to take a train 
and go somewhere else to do it. If he wants to go out in the 
woods to gather wild flowers for his sweetheart or get some 
sweet gum he has to go miles and miles in an automobile while 
If he wants to go hunting he has to go away off to do so To 
indulge in any of these delightful sports, this modern boy has 
to make as much preparation as if he were going on a long rail- 
way journey. Not content with expanding out all over the old 
huntmg and fishing places, thus wiping them off the map modern 
Houston has gone a step further and absolutely ruined the 
bayou. Looking at the dirty, grease-covered bayou of today one 
would never think that at one time it was one of the prettiest 
streams in Texas; that its water was clean and limpid covered 
with water lillies and filled with fish and crabs, and that its 
banks were grassy and overgrown with wild flowers "Going 
in swimming" was then one of the greatest delights of the Hous- 
ton boys and from about the middle of April until late in the fall 
the swimming holes were generally well filled from morning 
till night. There were some favorite swimming holes but I 
venture to say that 99 per cent of the boys learned to swim in 



216 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"Stockbridges," down at the foot of Texas Avenue. This was a 
famous place. The water at no point was more than four feet 
deep, while the bottom was pure white sand. It was a great 
watering place for draymen and teamsters and was also used 
as a ford for teams to cross from one side of the bayou to the 
other. As a rule, only the little boys used Stockbridges, for it 
was considered beneath the dignity of a boy who could swim 
to go in there. It was a kind of kindergarten swimming hole. 

About two blocks below Stockbridges, near the foot of Prairie 
Avenue, was "Evans hole." There were large trees on each 
side of the bayou, which cast a good shade over the water, thus 
making it a delightful place at all hours of the day. "Evans 
hole" had a hard, sandy bottom, was free from snags and, while 
quite deep in the middle, was shallow on each side. Further 
down the bayou, at the foot of Smith Street, was "The Syca- 
mores." This was a very deep hole, having a large sycamore 
tree leaning far over it, from which the boys were accustomed 
to dive. Being so deep, with steep banks and no shallow water, 
"The Sycamores" was used only by the boys who, I may say, 
were in the junior class of swimmers. I have seen some fine 
fights and funny things down at "The Sycamores," but one that, 
while funny enough, came near ending disastrously, I will never 
forget. Jim Blake, afterward Dr. James Blake, who died a few 
years ago, came down to the swimming hole one afternoon, 
bringing two immense Mexican gourds. Each was corked tight- 
ly and had a piece of rope tied round its middle. When asked 
what he was going to do, Jim informed us that he was going to 
show us how to walk on water. He pulled off his clothes and was 
ready for action, for bathing suits were unknown at that time. 
He carefully tied the gourds, one to each ankle, and without the 
slightest hesitation crawled out on the sycamore overhanging 
the water and let himself down. He had a good start, all right, 
for the distance was just sufficient to submerge the gourds so 
they would bear his weight. 

We looked on admiringly and then Jim turned loose his hold 
on the tree. There was a terrible splash and Jim's head and 
body disappeared but his feet remained in sight. You should 
have seen how those gourds whirled and moved about. We were 
all so scared we did not know what to do. In the struggles 
to get his head where his feet were Jim drifted out toward the 
middle of the bayou. So far as we were concerned Jim would 
have drowned right there had he not managed to catch hold 
of one of the ropes up by the side of his feet. He coughed, 
spluttered and threw up water like a walrus, but he kept his 
head above water and began abusing us for not helping him. 
Seeing that he was safe and in no immediate danger of drowning 
the boys returned his abuse with interest and guyed him about 
walking on water, calling on him to walk out. Finally one of 
the big boys swam out and towed him to shore. He was mad 
with himself and mad with us too and his temper was not cooled 
the least bit when after getting rid of his gourds he started to 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 217 

dress and found that some one had tied his shirt, coat and pants 
in hard knots. He sat there, "chawed bacon" as the process of 
untying the knots with the teeth was called, and swore he was 
going to whip us individually and collectively, as soon as he got 
dressed. As he was big and strong we thought discretion the 
better part of valor so by the time he got his knots untied we 
were dressed and gone and he was all alone in his glory. 

The next great swimming hole was the "Arsenal," at the foot 
of La Branch Street. It got its name from the fact that in early 
days there was a fort and arsenal there, though both had dis- 
appeared long before my time. The "Arsenal" was very wide 
and very deep and only the best swimmers ever went in there. 
It was strictly a big boys' place and they, knowing the danger, 
took good care to drive all small boys and poor swimmers away. 
The big boys vied with each other in diving, swimming and 
other aquatic feats. One of the great diving feats was to crawl 
into the water on one side, disappear, swim along the bottom 
and come out on the other side of the bayou. I have seen this 
attempted by hundreds of boys, but remember only one who could 
accomplish it with ease. His name was John Hale. He was 
an expert swimmer and while still a boy jumped off one of the 
bayou steamboats and saved the life of a negro man who had 
either fallen or been knocked off the boat. 

When I think of those happy, care-free days I have a sincere 
pity for the modern Houston boy who goes bathing in a con- 
fcrete tank, hunting and fishing in an automobile and what is 
worse than all, has to put on a bathing suit when he goes swim- 
ming. Times have degenerated awfully and Houston and Buffalo 
Bayou have led in the degeneracy. 

•f 4. 4. 

IN SAN ANGELO. 

I am afraid I got myself into serious business by telling those 
Le Mott stories, for at least a dozen of my friends have 
been doing the Oliver Twist act and asking for more. Even 
two of my lady friends asked me to please tell those two stories 
Mr. Le Mott spoke of, "Farmer Joe" and "Old Fish." Of course, 
I can not tell the stories as Le Mott tells them. He is an artist 
in that line and one of the greatest charms about his storytelling 
Is the fact that when he becomes interested he drops into the 
habits of all old sports and speaks of everything in the present 
tense. Le Mott has to he heard to be appreciated. 

"Did I ever tell you about the Old Gray Front Saloon in San 
Angelo?" he asked me one day. "San Angelo was the biggest 
thing in the biggest county in the biggest State in the Union, 
and the Gray Front was the biggest thing in San Angelo. It 
was a single-story adobe building, but what it lacked in height 
it made up in length, for it was fully 70 feet long. There were 
three fellows running it. "Farmer Joe" deals monte for the Mexi- 
cans up in front. "Frenchy" deals faro bank in the rear, while 



218 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Billy, "the bouncer," deals whiskey for everybody over a board 
counter that takes up nearly one whole side of the house. Billy 
got his name of "Bouncer" from a habit he had of butting into 
every fight that got started, not playing any favorites, but chok- 
ing off both parties engaged in battle. This habit of Billy's 
does not lead to peace; it leads the other way, for gents, even 
timid ones, felt safe to start war when they knew Billy was 
going to put a stop to it at the very jump. 

"Now, .'Farmer Joe' was no more of a farmer than you are. 
He gets his name from a habit he has of wearing his hair and 
beard long. He was the most peaceful man on earth. He hated 
a row worse than any one and when war was declared by any- 
body he would not stay and witness it, he was so peace-loving. 
He was so gun-shy it was painful, and whenever two gentlemen 
started to argue with their artillery, Joe would leave the room 
even if he had to do the sash act in order to get out. You un- 
derstand that the sash act was going out of the window in so 
great a hurry as to take sash and all with you. 

"As I have said, Joe deals monte for the Mexicans in the 
front part of the building. He is not very strong financially, his 
bank roll being only about $40. The Mexicans know Joe is peace- 
ful and they make him take a heap of their sass, for they know 
Joe would rather have abuse than a fight any time. I call to 
mind one of the funniest things I ever witnessed in which Joe 
played a leading part. There is a little consumptive Mexican 
playing against his game. A dispute comes up between them. 
The Mexican is very sassy. Joe sees Billy standing near and 
knowing he will stop the fight, he concludes to soak the Mexican 
one for luck. He bats the Mexican. The Mexican don't know 
anything about fighting and goes for Joe like a woman. He 
grabs him by the hair with one hand and by the beard with 
the other. Then he begins to pick Joe the same as if he is a 
chicken. He swipes a handful of hair out of Joe's face and 
another handful out of his head. In a minute he has Joe look- 
ing like a cross between a half-picked chicken and a dog with 
mange. At the first start Billy comes round from behind the 
bar to interfere, but changes his mind and stands there viewing 
the battle. It shore was a funny battle, too. They sways this 
way and they sways that way and finally they sways against 
Joe's table and upsets it, scattering his bank roll all over the 
floor. The other Mexicans, seeing everybody watching the fight, 
went for the money, and Joe told me afterward that he did not 
get but about $8 of it back after the war was over. 

'"Don't that beat hell?' says Joe, looking at me when he and 
the Mexican drops loose from each other because they were 
out of wind, and could go no longer, 'Don't that beat hell? Here 
I been for three years. There's been more'n five hundred fights 
started durin' that time and this is* the first one Billy ever let 
go to a finish.' 

"I wanted to laugh, but I held in because I saw tears in Joe's 
eyes. Being pulled to pieces that way by a consumptive Mexi- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 219 

can goes hard with him. That Mexican did lots to him, for he 
don't leave but one little patch of beard on his face, and Joe's 
head looked like a whole tribe of Indians had been scalping him. 
"But 'Frenchy' is the big man of the works in the Gray Front. 
He deals faro bank. They call him 'Frenchy,' though why they 
do so I never could vmderstand. His place is away back near 
the stove, where it is warm and comfortable. He ain't got no 
box but deals out of his hand. He shuffles up the cards, shows 
the soda card, and then, turning them face down, proceeds to 
deal. It's a good way, too, and he has a game going nearly all 
the time. 

"One night two fellows come in and buck against him. They 
have only passable luck. The next night they both come again, 
but only one of them plays. Soon one of them disappears. No- 
body notices where he goes at the time, but it develops after- 
ward that he goes under the table, where he can look up and 
see the cards Frenchy is holding in his hand, face down. He 
and his partner has signals, so the bank loses pretty constantly. 
After a while the stranger who is playing makes a funny kind 
of bet on the nine and wins, of course. This excites Frenchy's 
suspicion and, placing the cards on the table and putting a stack 
of chips on them, he leans back so he can see under the table. 
There he sees the legs of the stranger's partner. 

"Frenchy says nothing, but reaching over to the pile of cord- 
wood that's there for the stove, he selects a good big stick. 
There's deep silence, for nobody knows what's up. The fellow 
under the table must have been a mind reader, or he has good 
instincts for danger; anyway, he knows something's wrong and 
he makes a break for freedom. He upsets everybody sitting 
in front of the table and starts for the front door. It's a long 
run but he wastes no time. The front door is a screen that 
swings back. He reaches it and just as he does Frenchy's stick 
of wood reaches him. It catches him in the small of the back, 
doubles him up and assists him through the door. As he emerges 
he collides with a man who is just entering and they both go 
down together. The stranger gets up first and starts for the 
door. 

"'Come back; don't go in there,' shouts the fellow on the 
ground. 

" 'Why not?' asks the man. 

" 'Because,' says the fellow, 'they are playing faro bank in 
there and paying off with cordwood. I don't win but one bet. 
If I had whipsawed them they would have killed me'." 



FAMOUS STREET DUEL. 

EVERYBODY remembers Matt Woodlief. Some because 
during his lifetime he inspired them with dread and fear, 
for he was a typical desperado and killer, and others with 
feelings of gratitude, for he was charitable and generous and his 
purse was always open to an appeal from the needy. Matt must 



220 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

have been a "throwback," and some one of his warlike ancestors 
must have come back in him, for there was nothing in the his- 
tory of his immediate family to account for him. His father 
was a leading physician of the state and the whole Woodlief 
family was one of the best and most prominent in Texas. All 
its members, with the exception of Matt, were peaceable, law- 
abiding citizens, and there is no way of accounting for such a 
volcano as Matt breaking out among them except to assume 
that he was a "throwback." 

Matt had a reputation for cool courage and desperate bravery 
second to none of his dangerous associates, and when it is said 
that those associates were such men as Ben Thompson, King 
Fisher and a number of similar characters, the full meaning of 
this assertion can be understood. He was a very handsome fel- 
low. Tall, with hair and mustache inclined to be blonde and 
with, what is so common among desperadoes, steel gray eyes. 
His manners were those of a gentleman; he dressed well and 
with good taste, and no one, merely meeting and conversing 
with him, would ever have taken him for a desperate character. 

For years he lived at various points in the interior — at Austin, 
San Antonio, Columbus and other places — but in 1873 he came 
to Houston to make this his home. He was a professional gam- 
bler and before he moved to Houston had nearly always owned 
and operated a gambling house. When he came here, however, 
he made no effort to open a game himself, though he had money 
and could have gotten all he wanted had he needed it, but con- 
tented himself with playing against the games of others. Luck 
was against him and he lost heavily. Then he got to drinking 
from time to time, and as whiskey always made him a fiend, 
everybody kept out of his way when he went on a spree. 

There was one exception to this. At that time there was a 
little fellow here who was chief of police and if he ever kept out 
of anybody's way or ever wanted to keep out of anybody's way 
no one ever heard of it. He was Alex Erichson, the coolest, 
bravest man I ever knew. I saw him right after he had killed 
a man one day and if he was any more excited or agitated than 
his six-shooter with which he had done the killing there was no 
evidence of it. One day Matt got to drinking, and soon got to 
raising a rough house in a saloon. Alex Erichson heard of it 
and went there to arrest Matt. He walked in on him and told 
him he was under arrest. Matt was not so drunk that he did 
not recognize the danger and folly of resisting an officer in the 
discharge of his duty, so he submitted and handed over his pistol. 
Erichson took him down to the police station and allowed him to 
stay in the front room while awaiting the arrival of some friend 
Matt had sent for to go on his bond. 

During the delay Matt had time to think over the situation 
and he began to feel the humiliation of his position. This made 
him angry and he began to abuse Erickson for having arrested 
him and to express regret that he had submitted to it and had 
given up his pistol. His language was very personal and finally 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 221 

Erickson, forgetting that he was an officer and Woodlief a pris- 
oner, lost his temper and told Woodlief exactly what he thought 
of him. He did not use Sunday school language in doing so, 
either. Just then Woodlief's friends arrived, the bond was given 
and he was released. So soon as he was free he walked up to 

Erickson, and, pointing his finger in his face, said: "You 

little Dutch , I'm going to kill you before night 

for what you have said to me." Erickson sneered in his face 
and told him to pop his whip whenever he got ready. Matt left 
and going to a gunsmith, purchased a Colt's six-shooter, his own 
being locked up in Erickson's safe at police headquarters. Po- 
lice headquarters at that time was down on a side street, one 
block below Milam Street. Erickson was detained there for 
some time by his duties and then walked toward Main Street. 
As he got to the corner of Main Street and Preston Avenue he 
saw Matt Woodlief on the northeast corner and Matt saw him 
at the same time. Each drew his pistol and began advancing, 
firing as they advanced. When each was about twenty feet 
from their respective corners they fell. By. a strange coincidence 
each had been shot through the thigh and the bone had been 
shattered. Their wounds were identical. They fell, but that 
did not stop the fight, for they began dragging themselves toward 
each' other, shooting as they advanced. Neither of them spoke 
a word as they slowly writhed along the street, getting closer 
and closer and shooting all the time. Both were noted shots, 
but somehow, after the two shots that had brought them to the 
ground, all the bullets went astray. Finally their ammunition 
was exhausted and the crowd rushed in and they were borne away 
and placed in the hands of surgeons. After weeks of suffering 
both recovered, though each was left a cripple for life. 

Woodlief was tried in the criminal court on a charge of assault 
with intent to murder. The evidence was very clear and full 
against him, but the jury saw fit to bring in a verdict of aggra- 
vated assault and battery and assess the punishment at a fine of 
$250. When Erickson heard the verdict he lost his head again 
and allowed his temper to get away with him. I heard him tell 
one of Woodlief's witnesses, quite a prominent young man, that 

he was a perjured and that he (Erickson) would not 

believe him on oath, and then, turning to Sheriff Con Noble, he 
expressed the wish that Woodlief would beat him out of the 
fine. He was as game as a fighting cock and as vindictive and 
unforgiving as an Indian. Woodlief remained in Houston for 
some time after his trial and then went to St. Charles, La., where 
he committed suicide. I say he committed suicide, for that is 
just what he did, though, perhaps, not exactly in the orthodox 
way. These are the circumstances: He and one of his friends 
had been drinking and cutting up. His friend was arrested and 
put in jail for an offense which Woodlief claimed that he himself 
had committed. He sent word to the officers that if his friend 
was not released by a certain hour, let us say 2 o'clock, he was 
coming down to the jail and take him out himself. Woodlief's 



222 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

reputation was such that the officers knew he would at least 
try to carry out his threat, so they swore in some deputies and 
placed a strongly armed guard in front of the jail. Promptly on 
time Woodlief showed up, smoking a long stem pipe. He ad- 
vanced to within 20 feet of where the guard was standing. Then 
waving his hand and ordering them to stand aside he reached 
for his pistol. The next moment he fell dead, pierced by a num- 
ber of balls, for the guard literally riddled his body. If that 
was not committing suicide, what was it? 

Like most of the gun fighters who were not taken off in their 
prime, Woodlief deteriorated toward the end, but the deteriora- 
tion was physical and moral only, for his gameness stayed with 
him to the last and he died as he had lived, without fear of 
God or man. 

* •!• 4" 

FAMOUS FOR MUD. 

I SAW some workmen repairing the pavement on Main Street 
the other day and it occurred to me what a vast difference 
there is between the streets of today and those of thirty 
years ago. At that time Houston was justly famed for its mud. 
There was considerable traffic on Main, Preston, Congress and 
other streets in the business part of town and also on some of 
the side streets, and as there were no pavements, when it rained 
everything fairly bogged down. The mud, too, was not the milk 
and water slush we have today, but was the genuine old-fashioned 
thing and was so outrageous that the Houstonians actually got 
to be proud of it, just as the old gun fighters were proud of 
their wicked records. 

Every winter was bad enough, but that of 1879-80 carried off 
the prize for outrageousness. About the middle of October it 
commenced to rain and kept it up until the middle of November. 
Then "the oldest citizen" and the weather prophet showed up 
and announced that it would rain for forty days and nights, and 
then commenced a new deal just as though it had never even 
sprinkled before that. The forty-first and fifty-first days were 
worse than any that had preceded them and it began to look as 
if it were never going to stop raining. 

Now, weather such as that would be pretty bad today, so one 
can imagine what it was then with no paved streets nor side- 
walks. Drays, buggies, wagons and other vehicles bogged down 
on the business streets and were left there to be dug out later 
when they could be moved without fear of having them bog 
down on the next block. Finally it got so bad that only the 
most imperative necessity would make people venture out in a 
carriage or buggy. One or two public hacks would get out occa- 
sionally, but it cost about as much to ride in one of these for, 
say a mile, as it would cost today to go to New Orleans. 

Right in the middle of all this magnificent weather the Z. Z. 
Club concluded to give its annual ball. Giving the ball was 
easy enough, but getting the ladies there and home again with- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 223 

out drowning them or smothering them in mud was another thing. 
I am not certain, but I believe it was Chief Coyle who solved the 
problem. He sent for Theodore, the most responsible hack 
driver in Houston, and consulted with him. The two together 
evolved a plan that worked like a charm. Chief Coyle prepared 
a list of the young ladies and their escorts and had all the 
young gentlemen meet at Gray's Hall early in the evening. 
About 7 o'clock Theodore came 'round from Preston Avenue 
driving six yoke of oxen hitched to an omnibus. He got the 
omnibus from Westheimer's stable, but where he got the oxen 
I never did know. Theodore had the list of the young ladies and 
had mapped out his route. The young men boarded the omni- 
bus and the procession started. One by one the young ladies 
were picked up and within an hour or two everybody was safely 
in the ball room. Everybody enjoyed the ride as much as the 
ball and it was a perfect success in every way. Theodore is 
still living in Houston and is as proud of that ox team drive 
today as he ever was. He is about the only hack driver who 
ever took ladies and gentlemen to a ball in a vehicle drawn by 
oxen. 

But everything was not quite as novel and enjoyable as that 
drive was. Dr. Charley Owens, who had charge of the City 
Hospital, located on McKinney Avenue and Austin Street, was 
called out of the city and got me to take charge of the institu- 
tion during his absence. One evening a messenger from the H. 
& T. C. railway office brought a note asking that a surgeon meet 
the incoming train with a carriage to take charge of a man who 
had broken his leg. There were no ambulances in those days. 
I got Jim Slavin's hack but could not get Jim to drive it, as he 
was sick. I met the train and got the injured man in the hack, 
fixed up as comfortable as possible, and we started for the hos- 
pital. Everything went smoothly until we were crossing Acad- 
emy Square. Here the front wheels went into a deep hole and 
the sudden lurch threw the driver off on top of the horses and 
he bounded off in the mud. He scared the horses so badly that 
they bolted and went out Rusk Avenue like skyrockets. For- 
tunately the poor fellow with the broken leg fainted at the first 
dash out of the box, so he was spared a lot of pain and suffering. 
The hack was up in the air one moment and several feet down 
in the mud the next. Those horses must have been almost 
scared to death to keep up the pace they did. Finally after 
going about four blocks the mud conquered and they stopped. 
I was wondering what I should do and was preparing to get out 
and try to drive the hack to the hospital, when the driver 
showed up. He beat anything I ever saw. He did not look like 
a human being at all. I could scarcely tell that he was a man 
at all, he was so disguised in mud. How he carried the load he 
had on him was a mystery. There was nothing broken, so he 
got on the box and we drove back to the hospital. I am willing 
to bet that the man with the broken leg never forgot that ride. 
I don't think the driver ever did and I know I never will. 



224 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

OLD MAN LAKEN. 

OF ALL the remarkable characters who lived in Houston 
in the early days "Old Man" Laken occupied a place 
very near the head of the class. He was the most 
serious man I ever knew. I don't think anybody ever saw him 
even smile, let alone laugh, and I am sure I never did. He had 
been a policeman, a jailer or private watchman all his life, and 
having occupied only subordinate positions, he did not know 
anything except to obey orders. Being old and somewhat feeble, 
Marshal I. C. Lord always gave the old fellow an easy berth at 
police headquarters and his principal duty was to keep order in 
the recorder's court. During his long career as a policeman and 
jailer it had fallen to his lot to kill several men and no enthu- 
siastic hunter ever displayed greater pride in telling of the 
game he had bagged than did "Old Man" Laken when telling of 
what he had done in the killing line. He did not speak of them 
often, but when he did his face showed the only animation that 
was ever seen on it. 

"You see, it was this way," he said to me one morning, describ- 
ing an attempted jail delivery. "I'm all alone in the jail, when 
one of them fellows puts up a holler and says he wants a doctor, 
for he is sick. I goes to the cell and peeps in. He's stretched 
out on the floor and is all doubled up, and when he sees me he 
begs for water. Thinkin' he's sick shore enough, I opens the 
door and steps in. Just as I gits in the other fellow, who is 
on one side, slugs me good and hard behind the ear and knocks 
me down. Before I can git up both of 'em is on top of me and 
begins chokin' me to keep me from hollerin'. Then they throw 
me in the bunk and piles all the bed clothes over my head and 
sits on top of the pile to smother me. Before they throw me in 
the bunk they takes my gun and my keys. They nearly smother 
me, but I manages to git my nose where I can breathe a little. 
I see what their game is, so after a little kickin' I laid right 
still and they got up and went out in the corridor. They went 
to the big door and unlocked it and went out in the yard. There 
was a big fence and as the sheriff always carried the key to 
the door of that they knew I did not have it and got ready to 
climb the fence. The fence was about eighteen feet high, but 
they got a pole and one of 'em dim up and dropped down on 
the outside. I had got up and had got one of them old boss 
pistols, the only thing I could find, and was watchin' 'em. 
When the first fellow got over, the other one commenced climbin' 
the pole. He was the fellow who had knocked me down and I 
wanted to git him bad. I slipped out and got right behind him, 
but he was too busy to see me, but just kept on climbin'. I 
waited until he got to the top of the wall and then I raised my 
pistol. It was so heavy I had to hold it in both hands. I took 
good aim and made the best shot I ever made in my life. I got 
him right in the middle of the back of his head and that fellow 
don't know till yet what happened to him. We caught the other 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 225 

fellow that evening, but I could never get a chance to shoot 
him, for he would never give me an excuse to do it." 

"But, captain," said I, for I always called him captain, and 
he liked it. "But, captain, why did you not catch him instead 
of killing him? You could have done so easily." 

He did not like my suggestion and answered a bit hotly: 

"Because I didn't want to catch him. Wasn't I hired to work 
for the best interests of this community, and that's what I done. 
If I'd made him come back there would have been his board 
and then his trial would've cost a lot more. I plugs him in the 
back of the head. It costs about $15 to plant him and there you 
are. Look at the money I save the community." 

Being a policeman was second nature with the old man and 
though he married a widow, who owned a snug little farm near 
town, and the old man could have lived in comparative ease the 
rest of his life, he hung on to his job to the last. The old man 
did not have a tooth in his head and as he disdained to wear 
"stone teeth," as he called them, his nose and chin nearly met 
every time he closed down on his quid of tobacco, which was 
all the time, for he was an incessant chewer. 

One afternoon Alex Erichson was showing Marshal Lord and 
a few other gentlemen, who were in his office, a Manhattan six- 
shooter, so called because the New York police had just been 
armed with them. After admiring the pistol. Marshal Lord 
went to his safe and brought out an old Allen pistol, also known 
as a "pepper box." A good many jokes were made at the ex- 
pense of the old pistol, but old man Laken took up for it. 

"You can laugh at it as much as you want, but all the same 
I got three dagoes with one of them pistols over in New Orleans 
one night. That is, I got two right there and the other one 
croaked next day in the Charity Hospital." 

Of course, he was pressed for particulars and told the follow- 
ing story: 

"It's thirty years ago and I was a watchman at one of the big 
warehouses on the levee. I noticed three dagoes moseying 'round 
and acting queer, so I watched 'em. One night I saw 'em go 
in an old shanty, so I snuck up and tried to get a peep at 'em 
I could see 'em but couldn't hear what they were saying so I 
snuck around back of the house where there was a window 
There I could hear 'em, but it didn't do no good, for they were 
talking dago, and I didn't understand what they were saying 
While I was trying to get close to the window I stepped on a 
bottle and liked to fell down. I made lots of fuss trying to 
catch myself and the dagoes look around and saw me They 
jumped up. One pulled a long knife and another made a dive 
at the candle to blow it out. I dropped him before he got to 
it and the other two ran to the front door and commenced trying 
to open it. I ran around the house and got there just as they 
came out of the door. I pulled down on the one in front and 
got him and then I lammed it to the other one." 



226 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"Why, you old murderer," said some one, jokingly, "it's a 
wonder they did not hang you for wholesale murder. How came 
you to shoot people like that?" 

"Well, I done it on suspicion and I'm dead right, too, for the 
one that died in the hospital comes across and makes a clean 
breast that they were counterfeiters the government is trying to 
catch. I didn't have anything but one of them 'pepper box' 
pistols, but you see it done good work for me." 

A young man named Gillespie was local editor on the Houston 
Telegraph at that time and made quite a feature of the police 
court. A great many negroes and loafers filled the court room 
every morning, so Marshal Lord issued an order to old man 
Laken to keep everybody out except lawyers and witnesses. The 
next morning the old man took a stand at the foot of the stairs 
and when Gillespie showed up he refused to let him in. Gil- 
lespie tried to argue with him, but it was no use. 

"You ain't a lawyer and you ain't a witness and you can't get 
in. So don't try," he said. 

Finally Gillespie got word up to the marshal who came down 
and let him in. The next morning Gillespie had a humorous 
story about the occurrence. He thought nothing of it and was 
therefore greatly amazed when he arrived at court to have old 
man Laken come up and whack him over the head with the hick- 
ory stick he used instead of a club. Of course, he was indig- 
nant and demanded an explanation. 

"You've done plenty," said the old man. "I won't let any man 
call me a brute in the paper or anywhere else." 

"I never called you a brute," said Gillespie. 

"The hell you didn't," said Laken. "Here it is as plain as 
printing, and it is printing, too," and he pointed to the heading 
of the article which was: "Et tu Brute." 

Gillespie explained that it was Latin and that he had used it 
for the purpose of expressing his sorrow that so good a friend 
as he considered Laken, had gone back on him even for a few 
minutes as he had done the day before. That settled the mat- 
ter and they were as good friends as ever, though Gillespie was 
careful to use only English when he referred, even remotely, to 
old man Laken in his articles after that. 

Marshal Lord, who is now ex-Mayor Lord, told me the other day 
that old man Laken died several years ago. He said the only 
change that ever took place in the old man was that his chin 
and nose came a little closer together when he chewed and that 
he used a little more tobacco, if that were possible, toward the 
end. There was only one old man Laken and there can never 
be another like him. 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 227 

TWO FAMOUS CHARACTERS. 

THERE were two characters in Houston in the early days 
about whom I would like some information and I hope 
that if this is seen by any old-timer he will supply the 
missing links. I remember them both and remember the name 
of one, but can't recall the name of the other. One was named 
Egerly and he was a man-about-town kind of fellow. If he had 
any profession or calling no one knew it and to come right down 
cases, if he had lived in modern Houston instead of priniitive 
Houston he would have been classed as a "bum." He was no 
bum, though, but was a man of education and some refinement, 
and evidently had means which enabled him to loaf, which he 
did in a lordly manner. He boarded at the old Hogan House, 
which occupied the half block opposite the north side of market 
square, and his favorite loafing place was at the ten-pin alley 
adjoining a saloon that stood on the corner of Main and Frank- 
lin Avenue, opposite the present First National Bank. Egerly 
was very dignified and spoke with great deliberation as if weigh- 
ing every word he uttered. No matter how drunk he got he 
never relaxed his dignity nor his deliberation of speech. All 
this earned for him a nickname and he was known to everybody 
as "Exact Egerly." If the stories told on him were true he well 
deserved the name, for it was said that even in taking his 
drinks he would always pour out just the right quantity he 
wanted. If by chance he poured out too much, he would pour 
it back in the bottle and never drink until he had the exact 
amount. Then, too, he would generally have the exact change 
to pay for the drinks when he drank alone or set 'em up for 
others. Of course, some of the stories told on him were exag- 
gerations or entire fabrications, but many were true, and I 
think it is safe to say that he well deserved his name. I don't 
know anything about his bar-room manners, for I never saw him 
take a drink, but I recall one instance of his exaction of speech 
which came near ending in a fight. 

At that time there was a lawyer here named Tompkins. He 
was a brilliant man and in spite of his rather wild habits stood 
pretty near the head of the bar. After the termination of some 
hard-fought case in court he would seek relaxation at the faro 
table. He had some disease which had made his bones chalky 
and consequently very brittle. One night he attempted to pick 
up a piece of money from the faro table and in doing so he 
broke two of his fingers. The next morning Egerly and some 
others were standing on Main Street when Captain Bob Boyce 
came up. 

"Did you hear about Tompkins breaking two of his fingers 
last night trying to pick up a silver dollar?" he asked. 

"Captain," said Egerly, with his usual deliberation, "you are 
entirely mistaken, it was not a silver dollar." 

"Well, what in hell was it?" asked the captain, who was high 
tempered and quick to take offense. "What was it?' Did he 



228 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

try to pick up the check-rack, the layout or what was it he 
tried to do?" 

"It was not a silver dollar at all," said Egerly. "I was a wit- 
ness to the whole affair. It was a five-franc piece." 

Then Captain Boyce lost his tempei* completely. 

"That makes a hell of a difference," he shouted. "Whether it 
was a dollar or 95 cents, he tried to pick up, cuts a heap of im- 
portance. Egerly, you are a damned fool." 

That was too much, and Egerly stripped for action at once, but 
friends got between them and prevented a fight. 

I remember Egerly being in Houston up to the beginning of 
the war. No doubt he went in the army. Anyway, he disap- 
peared and though I have often thought of him I have never seen 
him since. I hope some oldtimer whose memory is better than 
mine may know and tell some further facts about him. 

The other man, whose name I forget, was the most curious 
specimen of humanity I ever saw and was of a type which has 
become impossible and therefore extinct today. He was the op- 
posite of Egerly in every way, for he had no education or refine- 
ment and was simply a bum and nothing else. Strange to say, 
he was popular and everybody knew and liked him. He was 
born with a flat place on his head where the bump of reverence 
is located, according to the phrenologists, and he placed the 
highest and the lowest in the land on the same footing. To him 
Mr. William M. Rice was "Billy;" Mr. Bremond was "Paul;" 
Mr. Shepherd was "Ben," and so on down the line. That, how- 
ever, might be construed as simply a bad case of gall and im- 
pertinence, but he had other qualities that distinguished him 
above his fellow citizens. He was the most reckless man I ever 
saw, and was constantly doing things that would have killed 
anybody else. But he seemed to have a charmed life and always 
pulled through safely. One night in the old Houston House bar, 
down on Franklin Avenue, he provoked a gentleman who had 
just landed from the steamboat from Galveston and who was an 
entire stranger to him, to such an extent that the gentleman took 
out his bowie knife and nearly severed his head from his body. 
They laid him out on the floor and the doctors came in, looked 
him over and gave him half an hour to live. At the end of the 
half hour he was still alive, so they hauled him off to a room 
somewhere. He was laid up for a long time but finally got welL 
Now I will tell you of his recklessness. 

In those days the steamboats would come to near the foot of 
Main Street and discharge their cargoes. The bayou was not 
quite wide enough for them to turn, so they had to go up a little 
further, back into White Oak Bayou, then haul the bow around 
and thus head down stream again. During this performance it 
was necessary to attach a line to a big cypress stump that stood 
on the bank of the bayou some distance beyond the mouth of 
White Oak Bayou, so as to hold the bow of the boat in proper 
position while backing into White Oak, and then to use a tree 
further down stream when turning 'round, so as to head down 



H OUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 229 

stream. In time the big stump became greatly worn and finally 
almost useless, so it was determined to remove it and substitute 
a post. It occupied the exact spot where the best leverage could 
be obtained, so its removal was absolutely necessary. It was 
no easy thing to do, so after much cutting and digging it was 
decided to blow it up with gunpowder. Holes were bored in the 
stump and these were filled with powder and a fuse was at- 
tached. About twenty-five pounds of powder was used and as a 
big explosion was looked for, everybody ran for cover when the 
fuse was lighted. The fuse sparkled a bit and then apparently 
went out, but a minute later little puffs of smoke showed it was 
still burning. The crowd was on tiptoe of expectancy, looking 
momentarily for the big explosion, when they were horrified 
to see this man I speak of come out of some coffee bean weeds 
that grew on the bank further up stream and walk direct to the 
stump. People shouted to him to go back but he paid no atten- 
tion and calmly advanced, puffing a big cigar. He went to the 
stump and, finding that the fuse had really gone out, he lighted 
it with his cigar and stood there while it sputtered and went out 
again. Then he picked up the fuse, examined it and threw it into 
the bayou. Kneeling down, he raked the loose powder into a 
train and coolly touched it off with his cigar. There was a ter- 
rible explosion and everything in the vicinity of the stump was 
hidden from view by smoke. When it cleared away the chap 
was flat on the ground, entirely unhurt. How he escaped being 
killed or seriously injured was a miracle. Now, if any of the old 
timers, and there are lots of them in Houston, more than I ever 
dreamed of, remember these two men and their queer doings 
they can give The Chronicle some very interesting reading 
matter. 

V V V 

HOUSTON'S FOUR BRICK COURT HOUSES. 

I WAS much interested in a discussion that took place yester- 
day afternoon between an old citizen and a county official, 
relative to the court house history of Harris County. The 
old citizen contended that the present magnificent building is 
the fourth brick court house that has been erected on that block. 
The county official said that there had been only three and he 
could prove it by the county records. 

Now, if the county official be correct the county records are 
radically wrong, for this is the fourth brick building that has 
been erected there. Long before my day, and in fact before the 
day of any one except the very, very old settlers, there used to 
be a frame building on the northwest corner of the square, which 
was the original court house, while the jail was another frame 
building on the southeast corner. In the early 40's these build- 
ings were torn down and a small two-story brick court house 
was erected in the middle of the block. The jail was located at 
the north end of the market building, which was a long frame 



230 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

house extending across the middle of the block from Preston 
Avenue to Congress Avenue on Market Square. 

Court House Square was a great place then, and if I may 
borrow from the geography I will say it was bounded on the 
north by the residence of Wm. M. Rice and a frame postoffice; 
on the south by the residences of Peter Sampson and E. W. 
Taylor; on the east by Peter Gable's brewery and the residence 
of Cornelius Ennis, and on the west by the residences of Judge » 
Peter Gray and John Brashear and a number of law offices. 
Messrs. Tankersley, Palmer, Hamblen, Manley, Riley and others 
whose names escape me were among the old time lawyers who 
had offices there. 

I remember this old, first brick court house well, for it seemed 
a magnificent building then, though I suppose it could have been 
placed in a space about the size of one of the present court 
rooms in the building of today. There were no blinds to the 
windows and common calico curtains were used instead. As a 
kid I went through the lower halls, but do not remember to have 
ever ventured to the second floor. I do remember the staircase 
and the cistern that was built under the building and in which a 
man was drowned. All the neighbors got water from the court 
house cistern in that day. This water got to tasting and smell- 
ing bad and finally an investigation revealed the dead body in 
the cistern. I don't know whether the man jumped in the cistern 
or whether he fell in, but I do know that he gave those court 
house square residents cause to remember him for some time. 
Another thing I remember about that old building was a long 
rope that was coiled up under the steps. Doubtless this rope 
was used for ordinary purposes, but we boys always looked on 
it with the most profound awe and respect for it was a notorious 
fact among us that more than a dozen men had been hanged 
with it and that the sheriff kept it in a convenient place, always 
ready for instant use. 

A year or two before the war that old building became so 
cracked and decayed that it was torn down and another larger 
brick building was erected, this time on the north side of the 
square, facing Congress Avenue. This building had a basement 
and two stories placed on that making it practically a three- 
story building. This building was scarcely finished when the 
war broke out and during the war the basement was used as a 
guard house and later converted into a receiving prison for 
Federals, who were captured at Galveston, Sabine Pass and 
other points. The real prison was located just this side of 
Hempstead on the Houston and Texas Central Railway, not far 
from Col, Jarad Groce's residence, now used as a colored state 
school. We used the basement of the court house to lock the 
Yankees in during the war, but after the war, during reconstruc- 
tion days, they turned the tables and locked us up in the same 
place, whenever they could find the slightest excuse for doing 
so. Major De Gress was provost marshal and ran things to suit 
himself, which he could do with impunity, seeing he had the 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 231 

army of occupation at his back. Still on the whole he did what 
most any stickler for military methods would have done were 
he in his place, for he had rather desperate people to contend 
with and some very few tough citizens as well. 

Finally this old court house outlived its usefulness and it was 
decided to tear it down and erect a new one on the same site. 
This was in the early 80's. There was a great deal of opposi- 
tion to the new court house, nor was this opposition confined 
to the taxpayers. The county commissioners were by no means 
unanimous in its favor. They fought among themselves and 
finally the question became a matter of debate in the news- 
papers. I remember it well and you will see later why I do. 
Colonel Hamp Cook was the Houston representative of the Gal- 
veston News and he wrote so much and wrote so well that it 
was not long before both he and The News became factors in 
the fight. The discussions became somewhat bitter and were 
verging rapidly on the coffee and pistol stage when Colonel Cook 
learned that one of the commissioners had taken the warpath 
and was out for his scalp. The colonel came to me and told 
me of his trouble and ended by borrowing a fine Colt's six- 
shooter with which to down the warlike commissioner on sight. 
I did not see Colonel Cook for a week or ten days and I never did 
see my pistol again. I heard afterward that the two had met 
on the street and adjourned to Japhet's saloon to talk it over. 
They stayed so long that when they came out neither had a 
very clear idea of what had occurred except that they had sworn 
to be lifelong friends. Neither could remember what had be- 
come of my pistol. The colonel offered me a brand new one, but 
I refused, being more than satisfied at the peaceful solution of 
the question. After awhile all obstacles were overcome and the 
old court house was torn down and the new one erected. That 
one stood there until lately torn down to make place for the 
present magnificent building. 

This briefly is a history of the Harris County court house and 
from it it is evident that the present court house is the fourth 
brick building erected on that square, whether the county records 
show such to be the case or not. 



A DEADLY FIGHT 

A FEW evenings ago I was talking with Captain T. H. 
Hunter, formerly of Huntsville, but at present a citizen 
of Houston, about the Cortena trouble on the Rio Grande 
in 1859. Captain Hunter was a Texas state ranger at that time 
and took an active part in the campaign against the Mexican 
outlaw and his followers. During the conversation Captain 
Hunter mentioned the fact that he and some members of his 
command had on one occasion escorted Judge E. J. Davis into 
Brownsville. The mention of the name of Judge Davis awakened 
in me many bitter memories, as it always will do with any old 



232 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

Texan, for he was the scion of E. J. Davis, who earned such 
an undesirable reputation as the governor of Texas during the 
reconstruction days. 

Judge Davis was a Union man, so when Texas withdrew from 
the Union he went North. Having gone North, he did more 
than some others who left with him — he went into the army 
and fought against us. Since in refusing to stand by Texas in 
its fight against the North was a matter of principle with him, 
I do not blame him at all for what he did. His entering the 
Federal army showed that he was willing to fight for his prin- 
siple and I admire him for that. Had he stopped then no Texan 
would have ever had the right to complain, but after the war his 
acts as a governor, backed by bayonets, were so outrageous that 
no true Texan can or ever will forgive him. 

I am not familiar with his record as a soldier during the war. 
All I know of it is the last and closing chapter. Soon after the 
Federal troops took possession of Houston Colonel E. J. Davis 
arrived with his regiment. It sounded very funny then and 
sounds a bit funny yet, but this regiment was called the First 
Texas Regiment, and was known to the remainder of the army 
as a genuine Texas regiment, loyal to the Union. I know it is not 
prejudice that makes me say it, for any one who ever saw that 
regiment will say the same thing, they were the greatest aggre- 
gation of scoundrels and cutthroats that ever disgraced a uni- 
form. So far as being Texans is concerned, I don't think there 
was a genuine Texan in the whole lot, though doubtless there 
were some who had a right to claim that they had lived in Texas. 
They were mostly low down Mexicans with a good sprinkling of 
negroes, and they all looked as if they had been recruited from 
the jails and penitentiaries. Where Colonel Davis ever found so 
many outlaws and how he ever kept even the semblance of au- 
thority over them has always been a mystery to me. 

They had not been here long before highway robberies, slug- 
gings and other outrages, of which I have already spoken, be- 
came of almost nightly occurrence. Finding that their would-be 
victims were prepared for them too often for their own safety, 
and after one or two of them had been found dead on the streets 
with the telltale slungshot knotted to their wrists, they turned 
their attention to other and safer modes of plunder. They took 
to raiding nearby farm houses, ill treating the occupants and 
carrying off everything of value they could lay their hands on. 
They did not go in twos or threes, but went in force and as no 
notice of their intended raids was ever given they had things 
their own way. 

One bright moonlit night in the fall of 1865, Mrs. W. E. Rog- 
ers, widow of the gallant Colonel Rogers, who died so bravely 
at the head of the Second Texas regiment at Fort Robinett, near 
Corinth, Miss., during the war, was aroused from her sleep by 
blows on her front door. She and her two daughters were alone 
at their home near Eureka, on the Houston and Texas Central 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 233 

Railway, five miles northwest of the city. The ladies were badly 
frightened, of course, and were terrified when, on peeping out, 
they saw a crowd of men on the front gallery and others in the 
yard. They paid no attention to the raps on the door and those 
outside, growing impatient, burst the door open with the butts 
of their guns and entered the house. The nearest neighbor was 
two miles away, but the outlaws took no chances of outcries 
being heard, or of an escape being made, and help summoned. 
They bound and gagged the ladies and, tying them securely to 
bed posts, they proceeded to ransack the house at their leisure. 
They broke open trunks, bureaus, wardrobes; in fact, everything 
they thought might contain money or jewelry, and made a clean 
sweep of everything they could lay their hands on. After they 
had gotten everything in sight they left, leaving a scene of ruin 
and desolation behind them. 

Now, if they had been satisfied with the plunder they had, all 
might have been well with them, temporarily at least. That 
was not to be, however. Their thirst for plunder was insatiate 
and they turned from the Rogers home to that of an old German 
named Bache, who lived with his wife and two sons on a small 
farm about two miles nearer town, about opposite where Hous- 
ton Heights now is. Old man Bache was about as tough a cus- 
tomer as they could possibly have tackled. He would rather 
fight than eat any time and everybody except those outlaws of 
Davis' regiment knew that fact. His two sons, though quite 
young fellows, were "chips off the old block," so the trio made 
a strong combination. 

About two hours after the Rogers robbery, old man Rache was 
aroused from his sleep by a noise in his yard. He got up and 
saw a couple of men coming toward the house. He seized his 
gun and called to them to halt. They paid no attention to him, 
but continued to advance. He fired and one of the foremost fell. 
The fire was returned and the doors and windows were riddled. 
The sons came to the rescue of their father and for a time a 
pitched battle was fought. The casualties were heavy, but they 
were all on the side of the outlaws. Finally the ammunition of 
the Baches gave out, a fact which was recognized by the out- 
laws when the brisk fire from the house ceased, and they pre- 
pared to take the place by storm. Finally they charged and 
broke the door down, thus gaining admittance to the house. 
That move on their part was fatal, for old man Bache had a 
cavalry saber, which he used with such skill and deadly effect 
that he killed three of them before they could escape. The 
others fled, leaving their dead on the ground, but taking away 
their wounded. 

It was nearly daylight now, so old man Bache sent one of his 
sons to town to notify the authorities to come out and take the 
dead men away. When it was learned that the dead men were 
soldiers, a detail of soldiers was sent after them, but by the time 



234 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

the detail got there old man Bache had changed his mind and 
had become so well pleased with his performance that he con- 
cluded to keep the bodies himself. The argument he used was 
that he had killed them and that they were his personal property, 
just as a deer or bear would have been. Finally his friends 
persuaded him to give them up and the bodies were turned over 
to the soldiers. 

When the bodies were searched some of Mrs. Rogers' jewelry 
was found on them, showing that they were the same scoundrels 
who had robbed her house. 

When I heard Captain Hunter mention Davis' name, memory 
of this outlaw regiment came back to me, and I thought of the 
last fight some of its members ever made and of what a proper 
and fitting ending it would have been for the whole regiment. 



UNCLE DAN AND UNCLE DICK. 

WHEN the Republicans and scalawags were manipulating 
the ballots and ballot boxes in the early 70's they little 
dreamed that they were giving object lessons and in- 
troducing methods that were later to be used with telling effect 
against themselves. And that is just exactly what they were 
doing, and wherever the Democrats secured a foothold they took 
pains to insure against it falling into Republican hands again by 
doing a little manipulating themselves. Occasionally it was 
necessary to overcome a Republican majority by such crude and 
violent methods as carrying off a ballot box by stealth or force, 
thus destroying the vote of an entire precinct which was known 
to be largely Republican and which held the balance of power 
in the election. Such things did occur, however, but the gentle- 
manly and clean way was to stuff the ballot box by removing the 
genuine ballots and substituting others. The present generation 
would hold up their hands in genuine horror if such a thing were 
proposed now and would cry out that tampering with the purity 
of the ballot box is striking at the very root of our government. 
That is eminently correct, too, for this day, but it must be borne 
in mind that at that day the ballot box had little or no purity 
about it and that the form of government the carpetbaggers and 
scalawags were trying to establish had such roots that it became 
the patriotic duty of every lover of his country to destroy them. 
It may have been a technical and nominally legal offense to 
suppress or destroy the ballots, but the circumstances under 
which they were cast and the conditions they aimed to perpetuate 
made it a crime against good government not to destroy them. 
That is the way the white people felt then and I don't think 
there is one still living who passed through those trying days, 
but who feels something of pride in having taken part in the 
good work. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 235 

Occasionally funny things would occur when, for instance, an 
election would be contested and it became necessary to open 
the boxes and recount the votes. Then it was often found that 
some loud-mouthed Democrat had voted for "the other fellow," 
which fact, no doubt, inspired "Uncle Dick" Westcott to compile 

his famous list known as his " book." 

After the Democrats had succeeded in getting control of affairs 
in Harris County they had hard work in holding it, there being 
so many white Republicans and negroes here that every Demo- 
cratic vote was needed, hence any backsliding or treason was 
looked upon with scorn and contempt. "Uncle Dick" Westcott 
was a Democrat at whose feet Thomas Jefferson and Andrew 
Jackson might have sat. He held Democracy far above religion 
or anything else. He was one of the most remarkable men I 
ever knew and was the first political boss Harris County ever 
had. His business was different from that of the modern "boss." 
He did not try to dictate to the voters who should be elected to 
office except in rare cases, when he was personally interested 
in a would-be candidate, but he made it his business to see that 
every Democratic voter did his duty and also to see that all de- 
linquents were held up to scorn. 

Now, early in the fight Uncle Dick had been elected county 
clerk and since all the ballot boxes were placed in his keeping 
after an election, he had a sure way of finding out just how every 
vote had been cast. If he had suspicion that Smith had not voted 
right, he would open the ballot from from Smith's ward or pre- 
cinct and set all doubt aside by looking at Smith's ballot. Of 
course, he never boasted of doing this and nobody was able to 
prove that he did it, but he knew too many things about the 
ballots and of how this man and that man had scratched the 
ticket to admit of any other explanation as to the source of his 
information. About the first intimation that he had real and 
genuine inside information about the ballots was given soon after 
an election in which Uncle Dick had been re-elected over quite 
a popular Republican opponent. A very prominent and well 
known lawyer met Uncle Dick and congratulated him on his 
election. 

"If you are so glad I am elected, why were you not glad enough 
before the election to vote for me and why did you vote against 
me?" he asked. 

The lawyer was dumbfounded and did not know what to say. 
He mumbled something and left. He had a moment before been 
telling some gentleman what a fine official and man Uncle Dick 
was, but after his interview with Uncle Dick he was heard to 
say: 

"That old rascal has been openin'g the ballot boxes and should 

be in the penitentiary instead of in the county clerk's office." 

Occasionally Uncle Dick allowed his zeal to get away with his 

judgment, and, as the gamblers say, he overplayed his hand. A 



236 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

striking and well remembered instance of that was when Judge 
John Kerlicks was a candidate for some county office against 
the late Captain A. K. Taylor. The returns, I believe, showed 
the election of Kerlicks, but the result was so close that Taylor 
contested the election and brought suit in the District Court. 
When the case came up for trial the first box opened was that 
from Wescott precinct. Uncle Dick's home box. There were 
more ballots found than there were votes out that way, and there 
was such evidence that the ballots had been manipulated that 
the whole vote from that precinct was thrown out, thus leaving 
a sure majority for Captain Taylor, who was given the office. 
While all the Democrats regretted the result, for they wanted 
to see John Kerlicks elected, yet they realized that the case was 
not so bad as it might have been, for though Captain Taylor was 
a Republican he was a clean man and had never affiliated with 
the scalawag Republicans and carpetbaggers. He made a good 
official and to the day of his death was one of the most honored 
and reputable citizens of Houston. 

Uncle Dick Westcott and Uncle Dan McGary were two of the 
most remarkable characters who ever lived in Houston. Uncle 
Dan owned and edited the Age, and whenever an election was 
to be pulled off Uncle Dick helped him with his editorial work. 
Either one was a hot wire and made little use of parliamentary 
language when discussing a Republican candidate or his adher- 
ents, so when the two put their heads together and produced 
di article it was something long to be remembered. They said 
just what they thought and as it was generally understood that 
they willingly held themselves personally responsible for any 
and all of their utterances no one had cause to complain. Uncle 
Dan was particularly bitter, for he had had experience. He had 
tried to edit a Democratic paper in Brenham but had made it 
so hot that the Republican voters burned down his office and 
the Republican officials placed him in jail where he remained 
for some time. When he got out of jail he came to Houston and 
started the Age. He and Uncle Dick joined hands and though 
as a rule the Age was practically the same paper day after day. 
Uncle Dan using the same matter all the time, when an election 
was coming on all that was changed and the Age became one 
of the'livest sheets imaginable. Both these old war horses have 
long since gone to their reward. Peace to their ashes! 
* * •!• 

A BIG NEWSPAPER SCOOP. 

ALL old citizens and newspaper men remember the big 
Post published in Houston in 1883. It was the biggest 
and best paper ever published in the South up to that 
time and a good sized fortune was spent in keeping it going 
during the year of its existence. Hardenbrook was general man- 
ager and looked after the business end, while Tobe Mitchell was 
managing editor. Both were wide awake newspaper men, Har- 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 237 

denbrook being graduated from the New York newspapers, while 
Mitchell had been for years one of McCullough's assistants on 
the Globe-Democrat of St. Louis. Judge J. W. Johnson, having 
spent a lot of money and wrecked the Post, which he owned, in 
a futile attempt to beat John Ireland, the Democratic nominee 
for governor, with Wash. Jones, who ran as an independent, con- 
cluded that running a newspaper was not his forte, so he sold 
the paper to a number of Houston capitalists, headed by Mr. W. 
R. Baker. These gentlemen knew absolutely nothing about 
newspapers, but they knew that Houston and Texas needed a 
first class Democratic paper, so they determined to risk their 
money in trying to establish that paper. The Galveston News 
had secured a strong foothold in Houston, so it was recognized 
that the Post must be made superior to the News in every way 
if it hoped to gain ground and drive out the News. 

Hardenbrook was given all the money he asked for to look 
after business matters, while Tobe Mitchell was allowed to spend 
money freely in gathering news. Both knew how to spend money 
and the result was that the Post soon took first place among 
the papers of the South and compared favorably with those pub- 
lished anywhere. 

Tobe Mitchell had a splendid staff; one that it would be hard 
to beat anywhere. He paid large salaries and was enabled to 
get the very best newspaper talent, not only in Texas, but from 
other states. Tobe was an enthusiastic and untiring worker him- 
self and had the happy faculty of creating enthusiasm in others, 
and he could get more hard work out of the men without having 
them feel that he was doing so, than any other managing editor 
I have ever met. He was quick to appreciate good work and 
equally quick to condemn anything that was careless or slipshod. 
At that time there was no literary syndicate that furnished col- 
umns or pages of ready made articles for Sunday editions. We 
had to make our own Sunday editions and every man on the 
paper that had talent in that direction became a space writer 
for the Sunday paper. There were short stories, special articles, 
poetry and sketches of various kinds and on the whole the Sun- 
day edition was quite a creditable affair. 

The Post was noted for one thing— the rapid changes that 
took place on the staff. It was strictly the "survival of the 
fittest," for Mitchell would fire at a moment's notice any man 
on the paper who showed that he could not keep step with the 
others. I remember an occasion when he came very near firing 
every man on the local staff, including the city editor himself. 
There was a young man on the staff named Sherman who came 
from no one knew where. He was quiet, unobstrusive and a 
fair worker. 

At times Sherman was dreamy and appeared to be under the 
influence of some drug, and he was supposed by the other mem- 
bers of the staff to "hit the pipe," which was a new thing in 
Houston at that time. He did his work well, however, and we 



238 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

were greatly surprised one night when he came out of Mitchell's 
room about 8 o'clock and told us that he had been "fired." He 
took his hat and left and we thought nothing more of the matter. 
We were somewhat surprised about midnight to see Sherman 
come in with a big roll of manuscript in his hand and go into 
Mitchell's office. He stayed in there for half an hour and when 
he came out, instead of leaving he went over to his old desk and 
seated himself. Then Mitchell came out and lit into the local 
staff and city editor. He said all kinds of things to them. I 
have forgotten just what he did say, but I remember his telling 
them that Sherman was the only genuine newspaper man in the 
crowd and that he was the only one who could tell a piece of 
news from last year's almanac. Then the facts came out. Sher- 
man had gotten hold of a big news item, had worked it up all 
alone and had not only "scooped" the News, but had scooped the 
local staff of the Post as well. Sherman, after he had been 
fired that evening had gone over in the Fifth Ward for some 
purpose. On his return about 10 o'clock he had crossed the 
bayou at Milam Street bridge and had come up Milam Street. 
There was an Irish boarding house and barroom on Milam 
Street near Congress run by a man named Flyn. Sherman 
stopped there to get a drink and while there learned that there 
was a man upstairs in one of the rooms who had taken poison 
and that a doctor was working on him then. Sherman at once 
went up to investigate and what he found was plenty, for the 
man proved to be no other than Major Robinett, an engineer in 
the United States army, who for some unknown cause had sought 
this out of the way place and had poisoned himself. As a matter 
of fact Sherman did not know what a big news item he had un- 
earthed. The mere fact that a distinguished army officer had 
attempted to kill himself in a low Irish boarding house was good 
enough for him and he worked it up for all it was worth. But 
when the fact became known in the office Sherman found that 
he was a regular hero as a news gatherer, for he had unearthed 
a big item of great local interest and value. This Major Robi- 
nett was the same engineer who had constructed Fort Robinett, 
near Corinth, Miss., which bore his name, and it was against the 
fort that the Second Texas Infantry Regiment under command 
of the gallant Rogers, had been hurled when instead of a regi- 
ment a half dozen brigades should have been sent. A great 
blunder had been made, the Second Texas had been nearly anni- 
hilated and Balaclava had been surpassed when that fatal charge 
had ended and that was all. The Second Texas was made up 
largely from Houston and nearby points, so the local interest in 
the item is apparent. The pressman on the Post was Captain 
Birtwhistle, a Federal veteran, who had served with Major Robi- 
nett in the Mississippi campaign and remembered the major 
well. Captain Birtwhistle was in Fort Robinet when the fatal 
charge of the Second Texas was made. The captain came to 
the editorial room and he and I, the only two who knew anything 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 239 

about it, completed Sherman's article and when we got through 
Tobe Mitchell closed everything off the front page and next 
morning the Post had a magnificent scoop over everybody and 
everything. 

Sherman was reinstated in his old position, of course, but a 
few weeks later he quit voluntarily and left town, and I have 
never heard of him since. A few months later the Post quit 
also and the staff was scattered to the four winds. Some went 
to New York, others to Chicago, New Orleans, St. Louis and 
other places. Mitchell went back to the Globe-Democrat at St. 
Louis and died there a few years ago. 

A FAMOUS ROBBER. 

I took a car ride out to Woodland Heights the other day. As 
I passed Beauchamp Springs I thought of old man Kirken- 
dall, one of the famous characters of early days, whose 
home was on the hill on the north side of the bayou, not far 
from the big spring that used to be just south of the bridge that 
crosses White Oak Bayou. Kirkendall was an intelligent, cool, 
calculating scoundrel and was the best hated and most feared 
man in or near Houston. He was so bold in the manner in 
which he stole cattle and horses and committed other depreda- 
tions that it was a wonder he was never caught and convicted 
for some of his many crimes. He was generally credited with 
committing every crime except murder and though he was ar- 
rested and tried seven times he always managed to get free. 
He was a powerful man. His frame was massive. He was 
about five feet seven or eight inches high, broad of shoulder and 
as strong as an ox. His right-hand man was one of his slaves 
named Pompey. Had Pompey been free and therefore able to 
do as he pleased, he could have made a fortune exhibiting him- 
self as a giant. He was so tall that one feels inclined to become 
indifferent in speaking of his height and to say that he was 
either six feet seven inches or seven feet six inches tall. After 
seeing him one would be inclined to accept either statement as 
true. As a matter of fact he was six feet seven inches and he 
was superbly formed in every way. He was loyalty and devo- 
tion itself and absolutely devoid of fear. He knew nothing ex- 
cept to obey Kirkendall, who had absolute confidence in him, 
knowing that he was too courageous to be frightened into giving 
any of his dark secrets away. 

For years Kirkendall stole cattle, branding those that were 
not branded, and changing the brands of those that were, until 
he owned one of the largest herds of cattle on Montgomery 
prairie, which was north of his home. He did not confine his 
operations to stealing cattle and horses, however. When op- 
portunity presented itself he was a burglar and more than often 
he made the opportunity when one did not present itself. He 
was a wholesale burglar, too. When he had made his way into 



240 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

a grocery store, tie was not content with a few cigars, a plug 
or two of tobacco, a box of sardines or a bottle of pickles; none 
of that kind of burglarizing for him. He took the whole works. 
One night he broke into Dan Huebners' grocery store, corner 
of Preston Avenue and Travis Street, and he and Pompey loaded 
everything in the store in a two-horse wagon and drove off with 
it. It must be remembered that the stores in those days were 
small affairs and none of them carried big stocks as they do 
now. Of course, Kirkendall was suspected and officers searched 
his place, but they found nothing, for he had carefully concealed 
everything in the woods far away from home. Both he and 
Pompey were arrested, but as there was no absolute proof against 
them they were released again. Sheriff Tom Hogan and City 
Marshal Bob Boyce tried to frighten Pompey into making a con- 
fession, but soon had to give it up, for he was not one of the 
scary kind and only laughed at them and held his tongue. 

But this success in robbing Huebner's store led to their un 
doing. One night Kirkendall and Pompey came to town with 
their wagon and broke into the store of Mr. Cornelius Ennis, 
which stood where the office of the Western Union Telegraph 
Company is now located. They took what groceries they wanted 
and then picked up the iron safe, which was not a very large 
one, and loaded that on their wagon. They took their plunder 
out near their home, dug a big hole on the bank of the bayou, 
buried the safe, and left it there to be opened at their leisure. 

The next morning when Mr. Ennis discovered his loss, he called 
in the sheriff and city marshal and they did not waste any time 
by looking elsewhere, but went right out and brought Kirkendall 
and Pompey in and placed them in jail. Then they gave Pom- 
pey a taste of what might be called the third degree. They i,ot 
a rope, took him out in the jail yard and swore they wouli 
hang him if he did not tell them all about the robbery. Pompey 
really believed they were going to hang him, but he did not 
weaken, but he did something worse, he made a blunder. He 
told them he was not going to say a word and if they wanted o 
know where that safe was they would have to go to Mr. Kirken- 
dall for the information. Now, as neither Kirkendall nor Pom- 
pey had been told what they were arrested for, when Pompey 
made his break the officers knew they had the right men. They 
went out to Beauchamp Springs and made a thorough search of 
the house, woods and bayou, and they found the safe where 
it had been buried by Kirkendall and Pompey. Kirkendall was 
indicted, tried and convicted, but I don't know what was done 
with Pompey. Kirkendall was sentenced to a long term in the 
penitentiary. When the time came to take him to Huntsville 
he was placed in the middle of a big wagon with two guards in 
front and two behind, and one riding on each side of the wagon. 
They knew he was a desperate man and the head of a band 
of outlaws of unknown strength, and it was feared an attempted 
rescue would be made. 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 241 

It was a week or two before Christmas when they started with 
him and as they drove off he rattled his chains and called out to 
Captain Boyce, telling him goodbye, and also informing him that 
he intended eating his Christmas dinner in Houston. The cap- 
tain laughed at him, but Kirkendall was telling the truth, for a 
day or two after Christmas officers from the penitentiary came 
to Houston looking for him and told how he had mysteriously 
escaped a few days before Christmas. 

After that Kirkendall left the country and was seen afterward 
in California, where he had evidently gone direct from Texas. 
As everybody was glad to get rid of him and to have him brought 
back would have consumed both time and lots of money, no 
effort was made to catch him and he died there several years ago. 

* * * 

TWO REMARKABLE HORSE RACES. 

IT is quite evident, to me at least, that many of the other 
old Houstonians are beginning to look on me as a kind of 
historian since I have had the pleasure of writing a few 
articles for The Chronicle, recalling some of my memories of 
the past. My daily experience with these old Houstonians is 
amusing and at times very amusing. I seem to have struck 
a chord which has aroused their latent memories and I am every 
day asked about men and events that lived and occurred long 
before I was born. Then, too, there are the critics. These I 
always welcome, for, being conscious of the fact that I am not 
infallible, I am desirous of being corrected whenever in error. 
It is amusing, though, to hear some of the corrections. For 
Instance, I met one of my old-time friends the other day: "I 
see, old man, your memory is bad," he said. "You get the gen- 
eral drift all right, but I see breaks here and there." 

I owned up to my fallibility and asked for particulars. 

"Well," he said, "I noticed the other day you said something 
about a thing happening on Saturday, when I know it happened 
on a Thursday." 

I promptly admitted the probability of his being right, though 
I had reason to know that he was wrong. I asked for other "bad 
breaks" I had made. 

"Well, you made one that made me nearly fall out of my chair 
when I saw it," said he. "You spoke of old man Jack Kennedy 
as William Kennedy when you wrote about those bomb shells." 

I cleared myself easily on that point by telling him that I had 
written "Mr. Kenedy" and that probably my bad writing was 
responsible for the change of "Mr." to "Wm." by the printer. 

Such encounters as these amuse me, but there are others that 
are not quite so pleasant. I don't mean to say that any of them 
is disagreeable, but some are rather boresome. I have been ap- 
proached, personally and by letter, by people who want informa- 
tion about early Houston on all conceivable subjects. 



242 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

"When was so and so's headright located?" 

"Who was the original owner of the lots where the Rice Hotel 
now stands?" 

"Do you remember a man by the name of Jackson who came 
to Texas in 1836, located somewhere near Harrisburg and after- 
ward went to Philadelphia in 1852 or '53 and died there?" 

These are a few samples of the inquiries I receive nearly 
every day. The other day I received a call from a very pleasant 
old gentleman whom I had never seen before. I admit that when 
1 heard him outside inquiring for "old man Young" I felt like 
Koing out and mounting him, but after he came in he was so 
pleasant and entertaining that I was sincerely glad he had come. 

He wanted information, of course, and it was about a race 
horse. He wanted to know who brought a certain race horse to 
Houston, cleaned up all the sports here, then went up the state 
and repeated the operation of skinnin' 'em up there. He knew 
all about the performances of the horse, but could not find out 
who brought him to Houston. He explained that his question 
had a business rather than a sporting intent, for on the identity 
of the importer of that horse hinged the ownership of a valuable 
tract of land either in or near Houston. 

I was sorry that I could not help him out, and told him so. 
After he had gone I got to thinking of old-time horsemen and 
race horses I had known. I found that my acquaintance in that 
line had been very limited and that I could recall but two in- 
stances of where horse races had left any impression at all on 
my mind, and in both of these it was the results rather than the 
races themselves that I remembered. In both the results were 
disastrous to the too zealous action of the admirers or owners 
of the horses. 

In 1870, and for a few years after, the Texas State Fair was 
held in Houston. The first was over on the north side of the 
bayou and was in Macatee's warehouse. The next year the asso- 
ciation purchased the old Hadley place out on Main Street, known 
for years after as the Fair Grounds. After moving out there 
a racing association was organized and everything was done to 
encourage the raising of fine horses, stock, etc. There was a 
good race course laid out, and some good races were pulled off 
every year. There was one fine horse named after Colonel Scott 
Anderson of Eagle Lake. I am not certain, but I believe Colonel 
Anderson owned this horse. On one point I am certain — Scott 
Anderson was one of the fleetest and best horses that ever ap- 
peared on a Texas track. 

As the boys say, he could hold one hand behind him and whip 
any horse he ever came in competition with. Of course, when 
Scott Anderson showed up in a race his backers had to give big 
odds to get any bets at all against their favorite. One of the 
greatest admirers and strongest backers of Scott Anderson on 
any and all occasions was a man named Gregory, who owned a 



HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 243 

saloon on the southwest corner of Main Street and Congress 
Avenue. Gregory was a good old sport and gambler, but at times 
he was rather too emotional and allowed his enthusiasm to run 
away with him, as the following shows: 

It was toward the close of the racing week, and a big crowd 
was out to witness the coming event, a race with half a dozen 
good and well known horses entered, among them the famous 
Scott Anderson. The horses got away in a bunch, but Scott An- 
derson soon took the lead. As he pulled out from the bunch 
Gregory began waving a handful of bills over his head, shouting: 
"One hundred to twenty-five that Scott Anderson wins the race." 

There were no takers, for Scott Anderson was plainly increas- 
ing the distance between himself and his competitors, and no 
one cared to throw away money by betting against him. "Two 
hundred to twenty-five!" "Three hundred to twenty-five!" "Four 
hundred to twenty-five!" shouted Gregory. 

By this time Scott Anderson's lead was so great that even a 
blind man could see that he had the race grabbed. But Greg- 
ory was so anxious to get a bet that he raised his odds. 

"Six hundred to twenty-five!" he shouted. 

"That's a good bet if I lose it," said Rush Hutchins, who was 
more entertained by Gregory's capers than he was by the race. 
"Here Gregory, put up your money; I take your bet," he said. 

Rush produced $25, which Gregory covered with $600, and the 
whole was handed to a stakeholder. The money had scarcely 
been placed when Scott Anderson stumbled and fell, injuring his 
leg so badly that he was out of the race at once. Gregory was 
too good a sport to kick. He accepted his loss gracefully and 
if he ever kicked himself for allowing his enthusiasm to get away 
with him, he did it privately, when no one was looking. 

Now, the other races I remember had simliar results, but from 
a different cause. These were races being held out beyond West- 
heimer's place up on Buffalo Bayou. The city has extended away 
out there, but in those days it was clear out in the country. A 
man named Copping, who, with his brother, owned a saloon on 
Main Street, was considerable of a sport. His name was Tom, 
though I forget his brother's name. Tom was the proud owner 
of a bony-looking gray horse, which he swore could outpace any- 
thing that ever came from Pacerville. There was good reason 
for his faith in his horse, for the old gray beat anything he went 
against. Tom was not only willing but anxious to pit him against 
anything that showed up. He would go against running horses, 
pacing horses, trotting horses and, I have no doubt had such 
things existed at that time, he would have pitted him against 
automobiles and motorcycles. His faith in his old gray was un- 
bounded. One day there were some races out at Westheimer's 
and Tom was there with his gray. He could not get a race 
against his horse, so he gave an exhibition spin around the track. 
The races were over and everybody was starting t otown. There 



244 TRUE STORIES OF OLD 

were wagons, carts, omnibuses, carriages, wagons and men on 
horseback. 

Every mode of conveyance of that day was represented. Tom 
was feeling good, and he called to one of his friends, who was in 
a buggy drawn by a good horse, and offered to bet him $300 to 
$50 that he could give him a half a mile start and beat him to his 
(Tom's) barroom on Main Etreet between Prairie and Preston 
Avenues. The other fellow hesitated a moment and then took 
the bet. The whole crowd stopped to see the performance. The 
money was produced and a tree some distance ahead was agreed 
on as representing a fair half mile start. Some carriages and 
buggies went with Tom's opponent to see that a fair start was 
made, but most of the crowd remained with Tom, who sat in 
his sulky awaiting the signal. When the tree was reached a yell 
was raised and the man in the buggy put whip to his horse and 
started for town. Tom put whip to the gray at the same time. 
But then the most wonderful thing occurred. The old gray, who 
to that moment had never failed to respond to Tom's call in the 
most proper and orthodox manner, stood straight up on his hind 
legs and looked over his right shoulder at Tom. He did not move 
forward one inch. Tom was too amazed to do anything. He 
waited until the gray resumed his normal position and then 
touched him up with the whip again. The gray promptly rose 
on his hind legs again, and this time looked at Tom over his 
left shoulder. That was too much, and Tom lit into him with the 
whip in good fashion. For ten or fifteen minutes they had it 
up and down all over the prairie. Finally Tom conquered, but it 
was too late, and when he reached his saloon he found his op- 
ponent there "settin' 'em up" to everybody in the place. 

Now, these are the only race horses I remember anything about, 
and it is quite evident that neither of them could under any cir- 
cumstances be of the slightest assistance in adjusting the own- 
ership of a tract of land. 




LRBAp'ZC 



